


Surely Heaven Waits

by shoreleave



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Hades - Freeform, Heaven, Hero's Journey, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mythology References, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Underworld, don't want to give it all away in the tags, various other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoreleave/pseuds/shoreleave
Summary: Every hunter’s instinct he owned was telling him all of this was about Cas, but he clung to denial. “No, it couldn’t be Cas because he’s okay, right? He’s with Jack!”When Bobby didn’t respond, Dean pressed, “You told me Jack made changes in Heaven and Cas helped, so what did you mean by that?”Bobby looked away. “Dean--”A cryptic message alerts Dean to the fact that Cas is in deep trouble, and he learns that there's more to the afterlife than Heaven and Hell.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 32
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... I loved the final episode, but it just left so many loose threads. This is my canon-compliant attempt to tie them up.
> 
> More tags will be added as needed.

Ah, sometimes I grow so tired

But I know I've got one thing I got to do

Ramble on

And now's the time, the time is now

To sing my song 

\- Led Zeppelin, "Ramble On" 

  
  


In retrospect, what Dean should have done when he got to Bobby’s was hide his limp. Maybe that wouldn’t have worked, though, since Bobby’s eyes were sharper than ever and he could see through Dean’s bluster just as quickly as he ever did. But Dean should have avoided going to Bobby’s in the first place. Or lied.

The truth was, Dean hadn’t given his toe much thought until Bobby zeroed in on it. It was a stubbed toe, no big deal. Getting out of bed that morning, he’d somehow gotten his feet twisted in the bedspread, tripped, and jammed his toe into the corner of the bed frame. Heaven was all about the realistic details, so his bed in the heavenly Bunker had a cast-iron bed frame just like the original. 

He’d had a second of sickening anticipation before he was hit with a sharp, intense jolt of pain--son of a _bitch_ \--which subsided into a throbbing ache. It hurt when he put weight on it, so he limped and hopped his way to the shower, cursing his own clumsiness.

Heaven wasn’t supposed to be painful. In Hell it was a given, a soul-destroying constant, but nobody put physical suffering on their wish list. Certainly not him. And in the weeks he’d been here, he hadn’t experienced so much as the twinge of a backache. For years he’d had back pain, which was always worse in the mornings after he’d been lying down for a few hours. But since he’d arrived, sleep came easily and his muscles stayed limber and relaxed, letting him roll easily out of bed without so much as a groan.

Maybe he shouldn’t have rolled quite so quickly this morning. 

After his shower--and Heaven didn’t skimp on the water pressure at the Bunker, thank Jack - he’d been taken aback when he took a closer look at his middle toe. It was swollen, bruised, and hot to the touch, and the nail looked like there was blood pooling underneath. It was a little uncomfortable to shove his foot into the boot (they were his favorite Chippewa logger boots, the pair he’d found rummaging in a bin at a Salvation Army in Scranton in 2007), but walking wasn’t so bad. Unless he forgot and put his weight on his right foot.

“What the hell happened to you?” Bobby was squinting at him from the chair on his front porch as he climbed up the three wooden stairs. For a former hunter, Bobby seemed to spend an awful lot of his afterlife sipping beer and gazing placidly at the scenery, usually with some ancient tome open on his lap. Since Dean’s arrival he’d started popping by the Bunker’s library about once a week, still fascinated by lore and demonology, more of a scholar now than an emergency consultant.

“Stubbed my toe on the bed,” Dean admitted, shrugging and dropping into the other chair. “No biggie.”

“You _what?_ ” Bobby sputtered, looking both bemused and appalled. “Let me see it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, dropping into the porch chair across from him. “Sure, Bobby, because I’m four years old. Trust me, it’s just a toe. I don’t need you to kiss it and make it better.” He propped the offending limb up on the cooler, then leaned back, hiding a grimace. Damn toe really did throb like a bitch. “Got any plans? I was thinking of heading out to--”

“Don’t change the subject. You were limping when you got out of the car.”

“Yeah, I think we already talked about this. Like I said, I _stubbed my fucking toe_. Now, you gonna offer me a beer?”

Bobby snorted. “Get one for yourself, idjit. If you can manage to lift your injured limb.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes, pulling his foot up a few inches so he could scrounge around the ice until his fingers closed on the neck of a bottle. It was so good to have Bobby back, even if he wasn’t as caustic or sarcastic as Dean remembered. This version was the Bobby he remembered after successful hunts when nobody needed stitches or got possessed, whose gruff affection for Dean was never in doubt. The man actually _smiled_ a lot, which freaked Dean out at first because it wasn’t a facial expression he was used to seeing on Bobby.

The conversation meandered, unhurried. Rufus was setting up a home brewery, according to Bobby. Ellen and Bill Harvelle were planning a line dancing night at the Roadhouse. Jo had apparently gotten herself a place in a poker game run by Johnny Moss and Nick the Greek, but she wouldn’t say what the stakes were. Dean listened and nodded, laughing at the right places but feeling a growing churning in his gut.

Heaven, from what he could tell so far, was surprisingly hobby-oriented. Everybody he ran into seemed to be happily engaged in their favorite leisure pursuits, those things nobody ever had the time or money for, back in the day. He’d been stunned to learn that his father had developed a passion for cooking. As far as Dean knew, John had never made anything more complicated than an omelet with a side of burnt toast, but now he was channeling his restless energy and research skills into mastering marinades and seasonings. He’d even planted an herb garden and spent Dean’s last visit teaching him the difference between parsley and cilantro. Not that Dean really cared.

In some ways, Heaven was like the fantasy world the djinn had imposed on him with its poison. He met and interacted with people he knew intimately from his old life, but they were _different_. They all seemed to be having a blast, and far be it from him to judge… but they seemed to be missing some essential ingredient. Like the Stepford wives. He just couldn’t put his finger on what that ingredient was.

Heaven was great, really. Almost perfect. But something was _off_.

It wasn’t that people weren’t glad to see him; some of them were downright overjoyed. Charlie had hugged the shit out of him, and Pamela Barnes had shown her appreciation even more enthusiastically, with a wink, a pinch, and a whispered promise in his ear.

John had just embraced him long and hard. “Good to see you again, son,” he’d said, his words choked and barely audible. He was living with Mary in their old house in Lawrence. (Geography in Heaven wasn’t constrained by spatial distance, he’d surmised. The Roadhouse was a few miles down the road, just as Bobby had said, and the Bunker seemed to have placed itself nearby, like Dorothy’s farmhouse landing in Munchkinland.)

His mom-- well. It was great to see her, of course, looking so happy with his father’s arm wrapped around her waist. But seeing her in Heaven couldn’t erase the complicated mess between them, and he didn’t actually spend much time with her. He was relieved to know she was safe and doing her own thing, but he had no intention of living with his parents. The Bunker was home.

And that was just as well, because John and Mary could hardly tear their eyes away from each other (or their hands, for that matter, which got awkward quick). Soulmates like his parents barely had time for anyone else, even their own son. But everyone in Heaven seemed happily _occupied_ , caught up in their own pursuits and passions. 

Dean got the picture: he needed to follow his bliss, pronto. But that was easier said than done. He spent a few days wandering aimlessly through the empty rooms of the Bunker, hoping to get a sense of Sam, like on “Dr. Sexy” when bereaved Dr. Lizzy could sense her dead lover Johnny Drake in the halls of Seattle Mercy Hospital. It was depressing as hell and it didn’t work, anyway. If Sam was in the Bunker, Dean couldn’t sense him. 

_Dean, get an afterlife,_ he could imagine Sam scolding him, with a disapproving shake of his head. _Stop spending all your time moping and waiting around._

 _Maybe you could put your ass in gear already,_ he retorted in his head, and then immediately cringed at the thought. He didn’t mean it. Sam should take his time, living the life he was finally free to live. He didn’t need to hurry just because Dean was bored. And lonely.

He eventually ditched the self-pity and headed down to the garage, one of his favorite places in the Bunker. It was spotless, the cars gleaming and gorgeous as always. Like a fucking museum.

He lifted the hood of the lime green Ford Thunderbird, but closed it again almost immediately. It was in perfect condition, not a spot of grease on the engine, just like its real-life counterpart. 

Sighing, he leaned back against the car, defeated. What the hell was wrong with him? Everybody else was obviously just fine in this paradise. Trust Dean Winchester to find a reason to be miserable because he had nothing to salt and burn. 

He considered taking Baby out on the road again, just to give him a reason to wash her when he got back. ( _Pathetic_ , he could hear Sam saying in disgust.)

Or, better yet, maybe he could find a car to restore, just for something to do, like he’d used the smashed up Impala to distract him from his thoughts after his father died. He got such a kick out of the process of restoration: disassembling the car, finding replacement parts, repairing the rust damage, reworking the metal to remove the dents, using his own two hands to rebuild her with his hard work and sweat, until she was roadworthy again. Restoring Baby after she was so badly injured was one of his proudest accomplishments, and one of the few things in his life he’d done without Sam.

Turning to leave, he noticed a red 1964 Jaguar E-type Roadster parked next to the Rolls, as if it had always been there. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he stood still, his breath caught in his throat. The Roadster hadn’t been there a minute ago, but suddenly there it was, an exact replica of the one he’d once seen on a poltergeist gig in 2002, right down to the chipped paint and scratches on the rear fender. 

He circled the vehicle and peered underneath, noting a few rust spots, a poorly-repaired dent, and a possible oil leak. He opened the door, climbed inside, and adjusted the seat. It was more cramped than he was used to with Baby, but not too bad. The car sputtered a bit before starting and idled rough, vibrating slightly, emitting a few popping noises. 

Leaving the engine running, he got out and lifted the hood, frowning at the caked-on grease. Spark plugs obviously needed cleaning. He felt a smile creeping over his face.

Heaven just might have some perks, he mused. At least now he had a hobby.

  
  


“Think I’m gonna have to replace the spark plugs on the Jag,” he told Bobby. “Carburetor too. Got any idea where I can get hold of the parts?”

Bobby fixed him with a look. “This is _Heaven_. You don’t need to find a dealer, dumbass. Focus on what you need, and it’ll turn up, sooner or later.” He nodded in the direction of Dean’s boot, propped up on the cooler. “Just try not to trip over it.”

“Focus on what I need,” Dean repeated slowly, like he was trying to understand. Bobby nodded. “You gotta be kidding. I spent two hours yesterday degreasing the engine. You’re saying I could’ve just thought it clean, and poof! No more grease.”

Bobby grinned. “Well, if you really wanted to do that, you’d have done it. So maybe you just like the satisfaction of doin’ it yourself.”

Dean took a sip of his beer, considering. “Could be.” 

“It’s not that complicated. You just...” Bobby paused, then shrugged. “I can’t really explain it, you just kinda clear your mind and relax, and there it is. Whatever you were asking for.”

“There’s got to be more to it than that.”

Bobby laughed. “Well, you managed to get yourself that car, didn’t you? I’m sure you can figure out how to conjure up some spark plugs.”

“Suppose so,” Dean agreed. “I’ll just go back to the Bunker, close my eyes and focus on my breathing.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad place to start,” Bobby huffed. “Don’t knock it if it works. Heaven’s what you make of it, you know. If you wanna bang around eternity complaining you’re not getting the stuff you want, that’s your business.”

Dean had no quick comeback for that, and they were quiet for a while. He started on a second beer, feeling out of sorts and restless. Bobby seemed absorbed in his book, which had a faded leather cover and yellowing parchment.

“Some light reading?” he asked.

“It’s about the _sitra achra_ , the realm of evil in the kabbalah,” Bobby told him, not looking up. “It’s in Aramaic. I’m working on a translation.”

Dean felt himself perking up. “Who’s the translation for?”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “For myself, obviously. There’s not much of a market for esoteric treatises on evil in Heaven.” He shrugged. “It’s more of an intellectual puzzle. The language is a bitch. _Klipot_ and _kedusha_ … I’m just tryin’ to wrap my head around it. Not do anything practical with it.”

“Don’t you miss it?” Dean blurted.

“Miss what?”

“Hunting evil,” he clarified. “Helping people. _Saving_ people. Livin’ on the edge.”

Bobby closed the book and sighed. “Didn’t you get enough of that? You saved the world, son, and then some! You did your part.”

“There’s still more to do.” He was hit with an almost palpable pang of longing for Sam, for the life they'd had, the thrill of finding a case and seeing it through. For the two of them together, perfectly in sync.

“But it’s not _your_ job now,” Bobby emphasized. “Take a load off.” His tone softened. “Look, I know it’s hard. It’s a big change. But this is a new stage of your existence and it’s a good one. Find something fun to occupy yourself. Go help out Rufus with his brewery. Take up skydiving, if you want an adrenaline rush.”

Dean shuddered. “Not goin’ up in an airplane! Planes crash.”

Bobby laughed. “Not here they don’t, but it’s up to you. But you can’t do what you did before, and that’s that.”

“I’m aware of that,” Dean said tightly. “But don’t you miss… “ Bobby wasn’t going to get it, he could tell already. He kept his gaze fixed on the hills in the distance. “I don’t know, being responsible.” He paused. “Being needed.”

“You _are_ needed, Dean.” Bobby’s voice was gentle. “You belong here. You’ll adjust, don’t worry. It takes time.”

Dean let out a breath, trying to release the tension. This conversation felt like one of those innumerable meetings with school counselors who tried to convince him that he’d get used to the new school, find friends, make up the material. The counselors always used the same blend of gentle encouragement and empathy (pity, more often than not, when they took a look at his transcripts). Dean never really wanted to adjust and fit in, but he became adept at giving the counselors what they wanted.

“You’re right, Bobby,” he said, injecting a bit of contrition into his voice. “I guess I need to adjust my attitude a bit. Try harder. Give up the old ways.”

“That’s the spirit.” Bobby seemed to buy it, which meant this homey visit was coming to an end.

“Guess I’ll be moving along, then.” He put down the now-empty bottle and stood.

“Hang on a sec. Let me see the damage before you head out. Take off your boot.”

Dean placed his weight tentatively on his right foot. There was still an unpleasant ache, but he kept his face carefully neutral. “Leave it, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Thanks for the beer.”

Bobby leaned down to rummage through the cooler. “Why don’t you take one for the road.” He tossed it up at Dean, slightly off target, forcing Dean to take a quick step to his right-- _shit!_ \--in order to catch it. 

“Oops.” Bobby didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “Nice reflexes. You’re not fine, something’s wrong. Now sit your butt back down here and take off the boot.”

“It’s just a damn stubbed _toe_ , Bobby, not a broken leg!”

“Dean.” Bobby’s voice dropped half an octave, into his _don’t-fuck-with-me_ tone that never failed to cut through Dean’s bullshit. “I’m not joking around. Let me see what you did to yourself.”

“What’s the big deal?” He’d had stab wounds Bobby made less of a fuss over than this.

“Because this is _Heaven_ , doofus, and I ain’t never heard of anybody gettin’ injured here.” 

Bobby obviously wasn’t going to let this go, so Dean sat down and worked the boot off. He peeled off his sock and frowned down at his toe, which now looked even worse, the bruising darker and the swelling more pronounced. 

Bobby sucked in his breath. “You Winchesters never do anything halfway, do you.” His fingers palpated the bruised area, pressing down gently as Dean swallowed a yelp. Shit, he was going to lose the toenail. 

On the other hand, maybe he could just regrow the nail instantly. He just needed to get the hang of--what was it?--clearing his mind and focusing on what he needed. Or something like that.

“Broken, I think, but not displaced,” Bobby finally pronounced. “Better ice it a bit and then I’ll tape it.” He gestured at the cooler. “Put your little piggies on ice. I’ll be back in a sec.” He disappeared inside while Dean gingerly placed a few ice cubes from the cooler above and below the swollen joint.

Twenty minutes later, he pronounced Dean good to go, his middle toe securely taped to the adjacent one. 

“Well, be seeing you, Bobby,” Dean said as nonchalantly as he could. “Thanks for the first aid.” 

He stood, but Bobby put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Bobby’s expression was all too familiar: the _something-bad’s-coming_ face. 

“Dean, listen to me. _Nobody_ ever breaks a bone in Heaven. Nobody even needs medical attention that I’ve ever heard of.” He pierced Dean with a suspicious look. “This isn’t normal. What the hell did you _do_?”

“Nothing!” Dean said defensively, retracing his actions in his mind and wondering which of them had broken Heaven. “I told you, my foot got twisted in the bedspread and I tripped. That’s it, end of story.” 

Maybe headspace-Sam was right: he shouldn’t have moped around the Bunker for days on end. He’d obviously conjured up some bad mojo. (Wait, was that even possible?)

Bobby looked genuinely perplexed. “Somethin’ just… ain’t _right_.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bobby. I just got here, and I don’t know what the damn rules are. You tell me!” he snapped. “I thought Jack fixed this place.”

“Damned if I know.”

“That’s not much help.”

Bobby sighed and sat back. “Keep your guard up, is all I’m saying. It could be nothing. Just… let me know if anything else happens.”

“Like what? If I get a paper cut?”

The look in Bobby’s eyes was deadly serious. “ _Exactly_ like that, Chuckles. Anything that don’t seem right.”

Perfect. Even Heaven wasn’t safe from the Winchester Luck.

  
  


He spent the day driving around, savoring the deliciously empty roads and pondering the scenery and the conversation. Back at the Bunker, he flopped into Sam’s favorite leather chair in the library. His toe was really starting to throb again, so he dragged the other chair closer and propped his foot up on it. Closing his eyes, he made another half-hearted attempt to feel for Sam.

Nothing.

Maybe Sam wasn’t even in the Bunker, Dean thought. That made perfect sense; Sam had agreed to keep on fighting, to live his life. Maybe he was off on a case, or going back to school. Getting a regular job.

He wanted a drink. Closing his eyes, he focused on that thought, relaxed into it, imagined it. Tasted it in his mind. Squinted out of one eye, then both, looking around in vain.

Figured. He couldn’t even booze himself to sleep. He was beginning to get the message: conjuring only worked when he was in a good mood. Pissed and frustrated equalled nada. What a goddamn catch-22.

There was no escaping the facts. His life was over. So, apparently, was his reason for being. He’d been put in a sort of active adult purgatory, surrounded by happy retirees who wanted nothing more than to take meditation classes and go golfing.

Damn it.

“Cas,” he said out loud, hearing the word echo slightly in the empty room. “Don’t know if you can hear me, but it sure would be nice if you were here.”

He waited, hoping for some sort of response. But there was nothing.

“You could help me restore the Jaguar. Bet you’d be real good at zapping away the grease.” He laughed to himself. “We could take her for a spin, once we got her up and running.”

Speaking to Cas in the evenings--okay, _praying_ to Cas, whatever--had become a habit, the one thing keeping him going.

“Guess you’re busy,” he continued. “It’s been a long day for me, too. Broke my toe, can you believe it? Bobby thinks it’s weird, bad-weird, first-time-ever in Heaven weird. Wish you could tell me what it means. But... I guess you’ve got bigger things on your plate.” It was hard to keep the resentment out of his voice. “And there’s another thing…” 

This one-sided conversation was travelling into dangerous territory, but he was tired and annoyed, and his foot was really aching. “I mean, where the hell _are_ you, Cas? After everything you said at the end, hell, after everything we’ve been through…”

_And everything I haven’t yet said. Maybe that’s why you’re staying away._

“Anyway, it’d be real nice to see you again. To talk to you. I’ve got some things I’ve been meaning to tell you… but I gotta do it face-to-face, man. Not like this, when I don’t even know if you’re listening.”

He sighed. “I know you fixed this place, Cas, and I appreciate it, I really do. Wouldn’t want to be stuck reliving my memories, most of ‘em are pretty crappy and even the good ones were kind of bittersweet. So, uh, thanks for that.”

He cleared his throat. “But you should’ve left a fucking suggestion box,” he said tightly, “because if this is all there is from now on, forever and ever, I’m gonna blow my brains out. It’s fucking _boring_ , Cas, and what the hell is my purpose in the afterlife? Waiting around for Sam, fixing up cars and drinking brews? Huh?”

His voice had risen. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. Time to hit the sack; this was going nowhere.

“G’night, Cas,” he said glumly. “Hope you’re doing something important, wherever you are.”

He dreamed of Sam.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Dean was dreaming of Sam and a baby. It was an infant and Sam was holding him, trying to feed him a bottle. The baby was crying, with that insistent rattling cry of a newborn, over and over--

The rattling wail in his dream became the buzz of a phone vibrating. Dean’s eyes popped open, and he had a moment of disorientation until he located the source of the vibration. His hand reached out automatically to the drawer of his nightstand, fumbling around until his fingers closed around the phone. He sat up slowly, staring at it.

A cell phone. In Heaven.

It looked and felt exactly like the old Motorola flip phone he’d had for years. The phone definitely hadn’t been there when he’d first checked out the bunker; the drawer had been empty. In fact, there were no cell phones in any of the rooms, and no laptops either. Heaven was one big cellular and Wi-Fi dead zone.

The phone vibrated again, just once. Dean flipped it open, blinking at the message on the small screen, sender unknown:

DN 122 JOB 1021

“What the fuck,” he muttered aloud. Who would be sending him on a _job_ in Heaven?

The phone seemed ordinary enough. It wasn’t brand new; it was marked with small scratches and dents, just like the one he’d owned. There were no other text messages, no history of calls, no contacts in the address book. The phone was fully charged. Unsurprisingly, he had no cell service.

He sat back in bed, considering. Heaven was like a fantasy land, so maybe phones worked in Heaven, if you wanted them to.

Heart racing, he dialed Sam’s number, his fingers punching in the numbers automatically. But there was no dial tone, let alone an answer. 

He tried a few other numbers he recalled: Jody Mills, Donna, even Cas… Nothing.

He read the message again. _DN 122 JOB 1021_. What the hell did that mean? If it was a code, it wasn’t one he recognized. 

Maybe they were dates. December 2nd, October 21st? They weren’t ringing a bell.

 _Coffee_. He needed coffee, and then a map. 

He parked the Impala on the tree-lined street in front of John and Mary’s house. 

Seeing his old house the way he remembered it from childhood gave him a jolt of nostalgia mixed with unease. The tree in the front yard wasn’t as big as he remembered it from when he was four, and the light-grey house seemed smaller, but it was unmistakably his old home. The last time he’d seen it looking like this, it was going up in flames and his world had just crashed around him.

He blew out a breath, trying to rid himself of his sense of foreboding. 

John was certainly the most likely candidate to send him on a job through a cryptic message on his cell phone. That was basically his modus operandi back in the day. And even if he didn’t send it, maybe he could help Dean figure out what it meant. John was first and foremost a hunter, even if he was currently vying for the title of Most Improved Home Cook.

Moments later, Dean was enjoying his second cup of coffee of the day and a slice of apple pie. “You’re getting better,” he told his father. “Mom’s recipe, right?”

John looked pleased. “Hers, with a few embellishments. You have to layer the apples and brush the crust with egg white.” He dug a fork into his own slice of pie. “Mary was never much of a cook, you know.”

“Yeah, Dad, I found that out the hard way.” Mary’s famous Winchester Surprise was basically meat, cheese and Fritos; Sam could barely bring himself to touch it. “Where is she, anyway?” he asked, looking around.

“Off with Ketch.” 

Dean looked at his father in surprise. Sure, he knew his mother and Ketch had had a fling, but she was with his father now, wasn’t she? Clearly his parents had a more complex relationship than he’d thought. “And you’re okay with that?” he asked, as casually as he could. 

“It’s not what you think.” John gave a philosophical shrug. “They’re friends. Your mother can’t be tied down... I’ve always known that. She’ll be back.”

“Yeah, I guess she will,” Dean agreed. It really wasn’t his business, he supposed. And Ketch wasn’t really a bad guy.

After an awkward silence, Dean remembered why he’d come here in the first place. “Got something to show you.” He took the phone out of his pocket and laid it on the table in front of John.

“Well, doesn’t that bring back memories,” John said, a slow smile spreading across his face. He picked it up, his fingers caressing the metal casing. “I had one just like this one.”

“I know you did. You bought me one like yours, after Sam went to Stanford.” Dean fought to keep his voice neutral. “You, uh, used to send me on jobs with it. Just coordinates and not much else.”

John laughed ruefully. “Yeah, I always figured you’d get my drift. Never had much patience for lengthy explanations.” He gave Dean an apologetic look. “I was never a great communicator.”

 _That’s one way to put it_ , Dean thought. But… water under the bridge, and anyway he wasn’t here to dig into ancient history. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “That phone just appeared in the Bunker this morning,” he said. John raised an eyebrow. “With a text message.”

His father flipped up the cover and clicked on the message, then stood up abruptly. “What the hell is this?”

“I thought maybe you’d sent it.” 

John shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the little screen. “There’s no cell service in Heaven, Dean.”

“I know, but--

“I don’t have a phone and I’m not working a case. These aren’t coordinates, either.”

“Yeah, I know.” Back at the Bunker, Dean had tried every combination of 1021 and 122 as coordinates, which landed him either in a deserted area of West Africa or in the middle of the south Atlantic. “I thought… I don’t know, maybe it’s some kind of heavenly address…”

John was still staring down at the message, perplexed, as if he stared at it hard enough it would reveal what it meant. “A text message on your phone? On _this_ phone specifically? Who would send you...” His voice trailed off. “You sure it’s not just an old message?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I’d remember a message like that. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t thinking fondly about this phone last night. I didn’t beam it up to the Bunker, or anything like that. It was just there, suddenly.”

 _I never even liked this phone_ , he thought. Watching his father with the phone in his hand reminded him of a hundred times his calls had been ignored and his texts unanswered. He’d bought himself a dozen other phones over the years, a Nokia, a Blackberry and a bunch of Galaxies. If he’d been itching to have a cell phone in Heaven, he’d have picked one with music and a decent camera. Not this Motorola antique.

John fiddled with the buttons, going through the menu as Dean had done in the Bunker. “There’s nothing else here,” he announced, as if Dean hadn’t thought to check it out, “no other messages, no contacts…”

“Way ahead of you, Dad. And before you try calling somebody, it doesn’t work.”

“I figured.”

“So what do you think?”

“I wish I knew.”

“What the _hell_ , Dad!” Dean blew out a frustrated breath. “Is this some kind of joke? What’s going on? What, wasn’t I adjusting well enough to the heavenly Hobby Lobby?” John chuckled, but Dean didn’t find it amusing. “Somebody’s obviously trying to send me a message. I don’t know what the numbers mean, but _Dean_ and _job_ are clear enough! Is this a hunt?”

“That’s a good question.”

“A hunt for what? How am I supposed to--”

“Wait.” The grin dropped from John’s face all at once, replaced by a pensive expression. “I think I might know what this is, Dean. Or at least, what it _isn’t_.”

“What do you mean?“

“I don’t think anyone’s sending you on a job, Dean.” John rubbed his hand over his chin thoughtfully. “I might be mistaken, but I don’t think that’s what this message is.” 

As always, John was seeing something here that he’d missed. For a moment, Dean felt like he was 22 again, hunting with his father, waiting for John to make the big connections and come up with the plan. And then share the details with his son, his hunting partner.

When his father hesitated, still frowning at the screen, Dean pressed, “So? Care to share?”

His father held up the screen, pointing to the text. “DN isn’t Dean. It’s _Daniel_.”

“Daniel who?”

“Daniel 12:2 and Job 10.21. These are verses from the Bible.”

Dean sat back in his chair, nonplussed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What do the verses say?”

John spread his hands in a who-knows gesture, giving a little self-deprecating laugh. “Never spent much time in church, to be honest. And after I started hunting, the Bible never seemed all that relevant. If I ever had a question, there were people I could turn to for answers.”

“You mean like Pastor Jim.”

John nodded. “Exactly. We need to talk to Jim Murphy. We can take the Impala. He lives just a short drive up that way,” he said gesturing vaguely up the road.

Naturally. Everyone in the hunting community seemed to have settled in the neighborhood. For a community of misfits and bordering-on-paranoid loners who spent most of their time on earth off the grid, they were surprisingly okay with living close to each other in the afterlife.

“I’m always up for a road trip.” Dean stood and pivoted toward the door, momentarily forgetting his broken toe. He sucked in a breath at the sudden sharp pain, then gingerly put his weight on it.

“Something the matter with your foot?” his father asked.

“Nothing worth talking about,” Dean told him, and strode determinedly out the door.

  
  


“It’s Sheol,” Jim Murphy told them, as soon as John had filled him in. 

“Come again?” asked Dean.

“The Bible verses refer to Sheol,” Jim clarified. “No question.”

They were in the basement office of his church in Blue Earth, the one Dean recalled from occasional visits when he was a kid. Pastor Jim, as Dean still called him in his mind, looked just like he remembered: tall and lanky, with thinning grey hair and kind eyes. He’d embraced Dean warmly, telling him, “I’ve been following your adventures. You’ve had quite a ride.”

“Sheol?” John repeated the word carefully. “Never heard of him.”

“It’s not a _him_ , it’s a place.” Pastor Jim grabbed a leather-bound book off his desk and flipped through it. “Old Testament… Here,” he said, pointing. “Job 10:21-22. _Before I go whence I shall not return, even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death; a land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness_.”

“Sounds bad,” Dean said.

Jim nodded. “It is. And this is Daniel 12:2: _And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt_. That last part is a reference to Sheol, a Hebrew word that was sometimes translated as the pit, the grave, or the netherworld.” He paused. “In Greek, Sheol was called Hades.”

“You mean Hell,” John said. 

Dean kept his expression neutral, but felt his heart rate speed up, his breathing quickening. “Why would I be getting a message about Hell?”

Jim shook his head. “Not about Hell, that’s a common misconception. Hell is a separate destination from Hades. Hell is a place of pure punishment, meant for evil souls to suffer there. ” His eyes flicked briefly to meet Dean’s in a brief look of compassion. “Sheol is one of the seven layers of hell - _shiv’a madorei gehenom_ , as they’re called in the Babylonian Talmud. It’s where most people - neither the good, nor the truly evil, but the vast majority who lie somewhere in the middle - go after they die.”

Dean gaped at him. “You mean, the netherworld is a _thing_? And everybody’s hanging out there?”

Jim’s brow furrowed. “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘hanging out.’ The descriptions sound fairly bleak. Dark and shadowy. And let’s not forget--”

“--Sisyphus,” Bobby’s voice came from behind, as Dean gave a start. 

“Where’d _you_ come from?” 

Bobby rolled his eyes as he walked into the office. “It’s _Heaven_ , genius, and y’all are having a conversation I’d like to be part of. Jim, John,” he greeted, giving them each a nod. “Wanna get me up to speed?”

“Dean got a text message on his old cell with a couple of Bible verses,” John told him, handing him the phone. “Jim says they refer to someplace called Sheol.”

Bobby glanced at the message, stepped closer to Dean and slapped him up the back of his head.

“Ow!”

“Didn’t I tell you to contact me, first thing, if anything else happened?” He turned to the other men. “Damn fool slipped and broke his toe yesterday.” 

John scowled at Dean. “I knew there was something wrong with your foot! You should have told me. That’s pretty important information. Especially in light of what’s happened.”

Pastor Jim nodded. “I agree, that’s very odd.”

This was like a scene out of his childhood: the three older hunters looking at him disapprovingly, like he was an immature teenager who’d forgotten to salt the windows properly. His Heaven was starting to get really annoying. 

“Take it down a notch, guys,” he said defensively. “I stubbed my fuckin’ _toe_ , I didn’t release the Balrog. And Bobby, you were my next stop, I swear.”

“All right, all right, let’s get back to Sisyphus,” Bobby agreed. “Stuck in Hades with an everlasting torment, rolling a boulder up a hill. Definitely a place to avoid, if you can.”

“And most people go there?” John asked. “Sounds a little harsh.”

“There are different levels, even in Sheol,” Jim explained. “Ordinary people don’t suffer such torment. Depending on the source, it’s been described as an enormous dark pit, or just a gathering place. Not much is known about it, but the highest level seems to be Limbo. A waiting place.”

“Waiting for what?”

“No one really knows.”

Dean broke in. “Wait, I’m still trying to understand. Are you saying that most people don’t go to Heaven or Hell, that they’re behind door number three?”

Bobby gave him a wry look. “Didn’t you notice the lack of crowds up here? The empty roads? Where did you think everybody went?”

“Sure I noticed,” Dean bristled. “Just… didn’t give it much thought. I figured everybody was off somewhere, doin’ their own thing like me.” He’d just assumed empty roads would be part of Heaven. Who’d want to spend eternity bumper to bumper? 

“Unfortunately,” Jim continued, “Sheol is closed off, out of Heaven’s reach. We don’t really know what goes on there.”

“So, guys,” Dean said after a pause, “this has been a nice little theological lesson, but can we get back to _why_ my old cell phone woke me up this morning with a couple of fun Bible verses about a shadowy pit just this side of _Hell_?”

There was an awkward silence. 

“Like I told you yesterday,” Bobby said finally, “something ain’t right. And it’s connected to you, somehow.”

“Great, that’s very helpful.” 

“I’ve got some contacts,” John offered as Dean. “I’ll make some inquiries, see what I can come up with.”

“We’ll look into it too,” Bobby said, with a nod at Jim Murphy. “Just… keep your wits about you, kid. If you get a letter without a return address, don’t open it until we get there.”

“Sure, Bobby,” Dean said, adding the requisite roll of his eyes. “If the toilet gets stopped up, I’ll come get you, don’t worry.”

“Nobody needs a plumber around here,” Bobby scoffed fondly. “Idjit.”

But his father met his eyes. John wasn’t fooled by his bravado; he could tell Dean was worried.

Sheol. The underworld.

Who was trying to contact him from _Hades_?

  
  


Back at the Bunker, Dean looked around and sighed. He wished fervently for Sam, with his killer research skills and his phenomenal memory. There must be something in the Men of Letters library about Sheol. Sam would know where to start.

Time for another prayer.

“Cas,” he said, letting his voice echo in the empty room. “Something’s going on up here, weird stuff, and I bet you could help me figure it out. I really could use you.”

He put his feet up on the big map table and leaned back in his chair. “I had this dream about Sam last night. I don’t remember much, but… He had a baby. I guess that’s my wishful thinking… I want him to go on and live his life. He’d be such a great father.” His throat choked up. Damn it. “Wish I could’ve seen it.”

He was getting off track. With an effort, he pulled his thoughts away from Sam. “So anyway, surprise surprise, my old flip phone transported itself here, overnight express delivery… complete with a text message about a shadow world just west of Hell. Sheol. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

He ran his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. “If there’s a message for me here, I’m not seeing it. Maybe Sam would be able to figure it out, who knows. So yeah, in the meantime I’ve got Dad, Bobby, and Pastor Jim helping me. That’s great. That’s pretty amazing, even. But it’s not the same. With them… it’s like I’m a stupid kid again, who trips over his own feet and doesn’t know enough to protect himself.”

He gave a frustrated grunt. “Cas, I’m a hunter. I’m Dean goddamn Winchester, I’m one of the best there is.” He felt slightly idiotic saying all this aloud, but no one was listening, anyway, so what did he care? “I can handle myself. You know I can. But I gotta tell you, I’m in no hurry to talk to whoever’s sending me warning messages from the underworld. And I’ve got a feeling something bad’s coming at me.

“Where the hell _are_ you, Cas?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All texts cited or quoted in this chapter are real. You can Google them.
> 
> This fic has taken a sharp turn from where I thought it was going when I started. But after I did a little research, the story decided it was heading in a different direction. Hang on, 'cause it's getting dark.

Dean staggered into the kitchen the next morning, still bleary-eyed with sleep, his hands fumbling automatically for a coffee mug.

“Rough night?”

Dean gave a surprised startle at Bobby’s voice. The older man was sitting at the table, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug, looking pleased with himself. 

“Give a guy some warning. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Dean was pretty sure Bobby liked popping into the Bunker just to get a reaction out of him. Or maybe to show off; Dean wasn’t particularly good yet at beaming himself around Heaven, using the power of positive thinking. “And what’s with the wake-up call?” 

He made a show of being irritable, but truth be told, he was relieved to see his friend after the sleepless night he’d had. He’d woken repeatedly throughout the night to check if he’d gotten another text message, but his phone stayed maddeningly silent. He was beginning to wonder if the message was a fluke, or maybe meant for someone else.

He poured some coffee for himself and flopped onto the seat across from Bobby. The coffee tasted like Death Wish dark roast, Sam’s favorite brand (and Dean’s because of the name). Heaven had some perks. 

“Just wanted to check in on you, see what you’d come up with.” Bobby nodded his head in the direction of the MoE library. “Maybe give you a hand with the research. Jim Murphy and I tossed around some ideas yesterday and there are some things I want to look up. And you’re conveniently sitting on the biggest collection of manuscripts, scrolls, and lore books in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Be my guest,” Dean said. “It’s not like I’m making much headway. Half of it’s in Greek or Latin.”

Bobby’s eyes were amused over the rim of his cup. “Maybe it’s time you learned.” 

Crap, not this again. Bobby seemed to think it was his mission in Heaven to make sure Dean was kept busy. “What’re you, my guidance counselor? No thanks.”

“Seriously, Dean,” Bobby said, fixing him with a knowing look, “it’d give you something to occupy yourself with. Until your brother makes his way over.”

Dean was well aware Bobby thought he couldn’t manage without Sam. Hell, Bobby had seen it with his own eyes, back when Dean had tried and failed to make a life with Lisa. But he wasn’t ready to admit to anyone that he was a mess on his own--in _Heaven_ , no less, how much of a loser could he be?--so he let out a casual chuckle. “Sam always had a thing for ancient languages, the big geek. Last year I gave him a Latin translation of Harry Potter for his birthday. Kid went nuts over it.”

Bobby was watching him with sharp eyes. “Don’t try to change the subject, you know what I meant. You’ve been out of sorts since you arrived, and don’t think I ain’t noticed. Now, I get it. He’s your brother, and the two of you were basically joined at the hip for most of your lives. I know you need him with you. Your Dad, Rufus, Ellen, we all know it too, and there’s no shame in--”

“Anyway,” Dean cut him off pointedly, “good that you’re here, ‘cause despite what you think of my research skills, I actually found something last night.” He puffed out his chest a little. 

Bobby cocked an doubtful eyebrow at him. “In _Greek_?”

“It’s translated. Guess not all the Men of Letters were fluent in dead languages.” Picking up his coffee cup, he led the way to the library, Bobby trailing alongside him.

When they arrived, Bobby looked around disapprovingly. There were books and manuscripts everywhere, strewn over the tables and propped open on some of the chairs. “Don’t you know to put the books away after you’re done with them? This place is a mess.”

Dean snorted. “You’re one to talk. Back at your house, I could never sit down without moving a pile of books first. And a layer of dust.” 

“I had a system,” Bobby grumbled defensively. “You boys were always messing it up.”

Dean decided to let that go, since privately he had to agree Bobby had a point about the mess here. He took a seat at the main table and Bobby settled across from him. “So... take a look at this.” Dean picked up a yellowing manuscript with a dusty brown cover and handed it to Bobby. “On Hades.”

“ _De Universo_ by Hippolytus, translated from the Greek?” Bobby’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “His discourse to the Greeks on Hades? _You_ stumbled onto this?”

“Don’t look so fucking astounded,” Dean told him, a little insulted. Bobby hadn’t been around those last few years, when Dean had spent hours in research sessions with Sam. He might not be as good at it as his brother but he could hold his own.“I know my way around the Dewey Decimal System. Open to the page I marked.”

Bobby squinted down at the page. “ _But now we must speak of Hades_ ,” he read aloud, “ _a locality beneath the earth, in which the light of the world does not shine; and as the sun does not shine in this locality, there must necessarily be perpetual darkness there._ ” 

He frowned. “Not sure if this is supposed to be a physical place, or just a metaphor.”

Dean nodded. “Keep reading.”

“ _And in this locality there is_ _a lake of unquenchable fire_ \--”

“Kinda like wildfire.” Dean’s lips quirked into a grin. “In the battle of Blackwater Bay.”

Bobby looked confused. “Wildfire? In the battle of _where_?”

“Game of Thrones,” Dean said, his smile faltering as he realized that Bobby hadn’t been around then. “Uh, season two?” Bobby just shrugged. “Never mind.” 

Sam would’ve laughed, he thought. Or no, he would’ve rolled his eyes and told Dean to stop making jokes when they were trying to deal with a serious problem.

God damn, he missed him. Even if he would go on for hours about how the books were better than the TV series.

Bobby read on. “ _There is one descent, at the gate whereof we believe an archangel is stationed with a host… The unrighteous are dragged toward the left by angels who are ministers of punishment, and they go of their own accord no longer,_ _but are dragged by force as prisoners._ ”

Bobby thumped the book closed. “That squares with what I know of the place. Nasty and bleak. What I don’t get is why your phone suddenly shows up with a message about it.”

“Or for that matter, who would send the message.”

“Crowley?” Bobby suggested. “Wouldn’t put it past him to resurrect himself as the King of Hades." 

Dean pursed his lips, considering. “Could be. Maybe this is his way of saying hi.”

A blast of music came suddenly from the direction of the one of the inner rooms, as if someone had turned on the radio.

 _Show me the way_ , a trio of vocals was singing in ringing harmony, _show me the way..._

“What the--” he started, but Bobby had already gotten to his feet and was moving in the direction of the music.

“It’s the _phone_ , Dean!”

Dean sprinted back to his bedroom, ignoring the twinge of pain in his toe. The tinny music got louder with each step. Bobby was on his heels.

 _Take me tonight to the river, and wash my illusions away_ …

Dennis de Young, he recognized with a snort as he jogged down the hall. 

He reached his room and snatched up the phone from his nightstand, flipping it open.

“Who is this?” he demanded, straining to hear something on the other end of the line, but it was dead silent.

He raised his voice. “Stop playing games, asshat. What do you want?” 

He waited ten more seconds, then hissed in frustration and snapped the phone closed. This felt like a prank and he hated being the butt of a joke. “Somebody’s having a good laugh, I guess,” he spat.

“I don’t think so,” Bobby said, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t feel funny to me.”

“Well, just so you know, my ringtone back when I had that phone was Deep Purple. Not a big-hair power ballad.”

Bobby scowled. “None of this makes any sense. If this _is_ Crowley, he’s bein’ a lot cagier than he used to be.”

The phone vibrated, just once, in Dean’s hand, signalling another text message. 

He snapped the lid of the phone up with a flick of his thumb. The screen lit up with two unfamiliar words.

_חנוך_

_עירין_

Dean frowned. “What is that, _Hebrew_?” Clearly Bobby was right after all; he should start studying ancient languages.

“It’s Aramaic,” Bobby said, peering down at the screen. “I know those words. They mean…” He paused. “I need to look something up.” 

He strode off toward the library, muttering, “If this means what I think it does…”

“Wait, Bobby, what’re you thinking?” Dean pressed, hurrying after him.

“Never mind. I want to chase this down. Make yourself useful and show me where the Men of Letters kept their Biblical literature.”

“What for?” Bobby just kept walking, his expression grim.

Dean blew out an exasperated breath. “Damn it!”

  
  


“ _The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English_ ,” Dean read the book’s title aloud. “Volume 2.” The heavy volume had a light grey paper cover over the binding; the edges were frayed and slightly torn. Sam’s favorite kind of bedtime reading material.

“It’s a first edition.” Bobby told him, sounding impressed. “Published in 1913, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

Bobby sighed. “This library is wasted on you.”

Dean was a little miffed, but hid it behind a sly grin. “You know,” he confided, “I actually prefer volume 1. Sequels never come up to the original.”

“Can it, Bozo.” Bobby’s patience was clearly wearing thin. “This ain’t funny. Stop screwing around and give me your phone.” 

Dean raised a hand in mock surrender, then fished the phone out of his pocket. Bobby flipped it open and pointed to the first word.

“This says _Hanoch_ \- or Enoch, in English. The Book of Enoch… does it ring a bell?”

“Never heard of it.” 

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Color me flabbergasted.”

He opened the book to where his finger was keeping place. “This is the first book of Enoch. It’s an ancient religious text, not really part of the Old Testament, but it’s been around for over two thousand years. Parts of it were found in the Dead Sea Scrolls. It relates specifically to Sheol and the underworld.”

“Sounds like a real thriller.” 

Bobby ignored him. “The second word is _Irin_ , which is Aramaic for ‘the watchers’.”

Bobby pointed to a passage on the page. “Enoch has a chapter on the watchers, who are rebellious angels. Also known as _fallen_ angels,” he emphasized, as Dean glanced up at him sharply, “trapped in Sheol.”

“Fallen angels,” he repeated, feeling his stomach curling into an unpleasant ball. No, it couldn’t be... “But Cas--”

“I didn’t say it was Cas.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Do you know any _other_ fallen angels?”

“Anna--”

“She was killed by Michael.”

“Well,” Bobby hesitated, “I supposed it _could_ be Cas…”

Dean felt his breathing quicken. Every hunter’s instinct he owned was telling him all of this was about Cas, but he clung to denial. “No, it _couldn’t_ be Cas because he’s okay, right? He’s with Jack!” 

When Bobby didn’t respond, Dean pressed, “You told me Jack made changes in Heaven and _Cas helped_ , so what did you mean by that?”

Bobby looked away. “Dean--”

“Did you talk to him, see him?”

“No,” Bobby admitted. “It was more like hearing it on the grapevine than face-to-face communication. Everybody just kinda _knew_.”

“Damn it, Bobby!”

“Calm down. We don’t know yet that this is Cas trying to communicate with you. But…” Bobby grimaced, gesturing at the book. “Well, judge for yourself. This is from Enoch chapter 21. 

_“I went to another place, and I saw a terrible thing: there was a great fire there, which burnt and blazed. Then I said, ‘How terrible this place is, and how painful to look at!’ Then Uriel, one of the holy angels, who was with me_ \--”

“That fucker Uriel,” Dean muttered. “Shoulda known he’d be involved.”

“-- _answered me. He said, ‘This place is the prison of the angels, and here they will be held forever._ ”

The words seemed to hover in the still air of the library. _Held forever._

“Basically,” Bobby sighed, closing the book, “the rebellious angels are held there in chains, in torment, until Judgment Day.”

“So Cas is stuck there? Is that what this means?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t good enough!” Dean raised his voice, feeling like he wanted to yell or punch someone. Or possibly puke. “Is that _him_ sending me messages in Biblical verses? Or someone else?”

“I guess we should assume it’s Cas.” 

Bobby’s pitying gaze infuriated Dean. “I mean what the hell am I supposed to do about this, Bobby? Just sit up hear and play my fuckin’ harp, knowing he’s in eternal torment and I can’t get to him? Cas is probably rotting in some dark underworld prison, which may or may not be ringed by a fiery lake--”

“Nobody really knows if that’s true--”

“Of course not, because there’s no way in or out!”

Bobby grunted suddenly, as if he’d thought of something. “Hang on, Dean--”

He shook off Bobby’s outstretched arm, too caught up in the violence of his frustration to listen to whatever Bobby might have to say. He grabbed the _Apocrypha_ and slammed it onto the floor with all his strength, making Bobby wince. If not for his bum foot, he’d be doing major damage to something, maybe kicking the sturdy wooden table until it shattered or shoving the antique bookshelves onto the floor. “Don’t tell me to calm down! I have to do something... I might be dead but I’m still a hunter!”

“Just listen to me for a minute--”

“This is _Cas_ we’re talking about, who else would send me my old phone? We have to figure something out, stage a rescue…”

Bobby looked skeptical. “We don’t know enough about Sheol. Hades. Whatever. No one’s ever gone there and come back to tell about it.”

“You don’t understand, Bobby, he’s the only one besides Sam who ever really…” His voice trailed off. 

“I know how you feel about him.”

“No you don’t,” Dean hissed, “and neither does he, damn it…”

A wave of emotion was threatening to break, and fuck, his eyes were starting to water. “Last time we talked, just before he got sucked into the Empty, he told me…” 

He paused, trying to steady his voice. “He said he learned to care, that he…” He stopped. His throat had closed and he took a deep breath, trying to draw in enough air to continue.

“Dean, you don’t have to say it.” Bobby’s voice was soft. “Anybody with eyes in his head could see how he felt about you.”

“He said he _loved_ me,” Dean bit out, and he couldn’t meet Bobby’s eyes. “And I said nothing. Nothing. I was so fucking shocked, I didn’t say a damn thing. I was such a fucking coward, Bobby. He kept telling me I was a good man, selfless, loving--”

“You _are_.”

“--and I just _stood_ there. Staring at him.” He shook his head in disgust. “I was so used to pushing everything down, for so damn long, and I just didn’t know how to deal with what he was saying.”

“I’m sure he understood,” Bobby told him gently. “We all know you’re not real comfortable with the feeling side of things.”

“That’s no fucking excuse! He said he’d finally realized what made him happy but he could never have it,” Dean ground out, “and I was just gaping at him, I couldn’t even believe he’d _said_ that, and then he was shoving me out of the way. Then he was sucked into the Empty and I never saw him again.”

He’d never told anyone what really happened between him and Cas, not even Sam. Hell, he’d barely admitted it to himself. But speaking about it out loud didn’t make him feel better; if anything, confessing everything like this just brought it all back full force. Cas must’ve been crazy to put so much faith in him, and now he was stuck in some horrific underworld prison. He’d never hear the words he wanted to hear from Dean, and Dean would have to spend his eternity knowing Cas had given up everything for him, for _nothing_.

He blinked against the wet burn in his eyes. He hated losing control like this. Worse, though, was how he felt inside: ashamed, helpless, and drowning in regret. Like he’d missed an opportunity that was never going to come back. 

“Pull yourself together, boy,” Bobby said finally. “I get why you feel like crap about it, and maybe you _oughta_ , because it sounds like you screwed the pooch but good.”

Dean nodded in miserable agreement, his throat still tight and his head aching dully. He wondered what Sam would say, if he knew about that last conversation between him and Cas; probably would’ve told Dean he was an emotionally-crippled idot. Which he was.

“But what I was about to say, before you decided to talk about your love life, or lack of it, was that _if_ Cas is stuck in Hades, and we don’t know that for sure, we might be able to find a way in.”

Dean glanced up at him, his heart speeding up. “Seriously?”

“From what I remember of the lore, there’s a river that separates the world of the living from the world of the dead and you had to cross it to enter into the underworld.” He shrugged. “Not that I’m hankering to go on a quest, but it’s possible we could find it. The River Styx.”

Dean drew in a sharp intake of breath. “Show me the way,” he blurted.

Bobby nodded. “That’s what I just said, we can look into it, maybe figure out--”

“No, I mean the ringtone! Show Me the Way. It’s a song... by __Styx_.” _

Bobby’s mouth dropped. “That’s no coincidence. What are the lyrics to the song?”

Dean snatched up the phone and hunted around in the menu until he found the ringtone setting, then pressed play.

_“Show me the way / Show me the way /Take me tonight to the river / And wash my illusions away_

_"Show me the way, show me the way / Give me the strength and the courage / To believe that I'll get there someday…_ ”

The song snippet ended. Bobby’s lips twitched into a weary smile. “I’ll be damned. That’s as good as an SOS.”

“There’s more,” Dean said. The words played through his mind, and he sang along with them softly. “ _Every night I say a prayer._ ” His voice caught, but he forced himself to sing the last line: “ _In the hope that there's a heaven_.”

“He’s telling us what to do…”

“In the hope that there’s a heaven… Bobby, where’s the River Styx?”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean slumped tiredly on a leather recliner in the library, a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black cupped loosely in his hand, listening to his father and Bobby bickering.

Team Fools-Rush-In, he’d dubbed them in his mind. 

“So we have to find the River Styx, and the Acheron River in northwest Greece is the only existing branch we know of for certain,” John was saying in his usual don’t-argue-with-me tone. He tapped his finger on the open page of an oversized atlas, open on the main table. “They called it the Gate of the Underworld. That’s where we start.”

“John, everybody knows about the Acheron,” Bobby countered. “It’s just a myth. If there was a way in from there, somebody would’ve found it. Hell, Rufus was in Greece hunting a lamia a couple of years back, said it was a damn tourist trap.” He peered over the atlas, then fingered a different place on the page. “I’m layin’ odds on the Mavroneri River, here. It means ‘black water’ in Greek. The ancients believed its water was poisonous.”

John sat back in his chair, nonplussed. “Go back to Dante’s _Inferno_ : ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ That’s on the Gate of Hell, before the River Acheron.”

“Get your head out of your ass, John. And don’t quote Dante at me.”

“Sounds like you need a reminder! The Acheron flows into the River Styx. That’s a fact, and just because Rufus stopped to buy a few souvenirs there doesn’t mean it’s a hoax.”

Bobby sighed. “Are you ready to listen to anybody else but yourself? Here’s a quote the poet Hesios: _That cold water of the River Styx that drizzles down from a steep sky-climbing cliffside, running off the precipice… It jets down through jagged country._ ”

“So?”

“So the Mavroneri’s in Peloponnesus, which is mountain country. Cliffs and rocky hills everywhere. Makes more sense it’s there.”

John gave him a disdainful look. “Who the hell is Hesios? I’m going with _Homer_ , ever hear of him? He called the Acheron a river of Hades. Saw it with his own eyes.”

“He was _blind_ , John!”

Dean tuned out his father’s grumbling retort, leaving the two of them to argue about rivers and tributaries and ancient Greek texts. His head was starting to pound, and he took another sip of the whiskey. If Sam were here, he’d be telling Dean--again--that alcohol could cause migraines so he should lay off. And if Bobby knew… he’d probably tell Dean that headaches weren’t even a thing in Heaven, so Dean was obviously screwed up in some sort of mysterious way.

Neither of the men seemed to notice that he was sitting in sullen silence, watching them argue without comment. 

It was downright surreal. Here they were, Dean and the two men who had dominated his childhood and teenage years, reunited on a hunt. It was astonishing how easy it had been to fall back into old patterns.

Dean had been 41 when he died, one of the most experienced and feared hunters on the planet. And yet Bobby and John had immediately taken over, hammering out a strategy to get into Hades, while Dean took a back seat. 

Dean knew he was partially to blame. At the beginning, when it was just him and Bobby trying to research Hades and the River Styx, Dean had been the one to find Hesiod’s _Theogeny_ (although he left the actual reading to Bobby) and Butler’s _Atlas of Ancient Geography_. 

But then John had arrived. Bobby filled him in, and in typical John Winchester fashion, he immediately commandeered the _Atlas_ and took the lead. 

Dean was grateful for the help. But it left him less engaged, with more time for his own morose thoughts. Helplessly, he played and replayed that last one-sided conversation with Cas in his mind, punctuated this time with the responses he should’ve spoken out loud. His guilt felt more and more inescapable. 

He flipped the phone lid up and down, staring at the foreign symbols and trying to figure out what all of it meant.

The facts seemed clear enough. Cas was gone, resurrected by Jack but somehow unable to communicate. Dean’s phone suddenly appeared, bearing a message about fallen angels and eternal punishment, with a ringtone that seemed to be a cry for help. There was only one way to look at it: this was Cas, begging for rescue. Cas must be desperate to reach out to Dean after Dean had let him down so shamefully.

When the whiskey had appeared on the table next to him, as if it had been there all along, it seemed like a clear invitation to dull his misery. So he’d sat himself down in the recliner and watched glumly, torn between resentment and relief, as his father moved in and took over.

He recalled one night years ago, when he and Sam had gotten drunk and argued into the night about what made Dad such a great hunter. Sam had insisted it was because Dad was Marine-trained, an expert shot and a master at hand-to-hand combat. Most hunters were ordinary guys who fell into hunting after somebody they loved got possessed, or turned, or killed. Dad was different: he was dangerous, even before he found out what was lurking in the shadows.

“That’s not it,” Dean had said. “Dad was the ultimate tactician. Remember when he went after that werewolf in Colorado, with Caleb and me? Or the chupacabra in Arizona? He’d lay out this complex plan, with reconnaissance and leapfrogging and diversionary attacks, and he wouldn’t let me go with him until he’d quizzed me for an hour, making sure I knew exactly what I was supposed to do. And he didn’t give a shit if he got stabbed or shot in the process.”

“Or if _you_ did,” Sam muttered darkly. “Fine, Dad was one of the best, I’ll give you that. But he was flawed, Dean, and you know it. He was driven by revenge. He took stupid risks--remember the fake Colt?--and his knowledge had gaps. He never listened to anybody but himself! Practically nobody would agree to even work with him. Including Bobby.”

Looking at Bobby and his father now, arguing over some drawing in an illuminated manuscript open between them, Dean could see why they could never really work together. 

Bobby had a prodigious working knowledge of the lore and the experience of fielding a thousand calls from hunters from all over the country. He put his trust in books, the older the better. John, on the other hand, was utterly confident in his skills and strategies, and wasn’t particularly inclined to play nicely with others.

Privately, Dean had always considered his father as a kind of real-life Indiana Jones: a superhero, flawed and imperfect, but still amazingly resourceful. Like Indy, his dad was a lone wolf, a hunter with a heroic bent and nerves of steel. Of course, Indy was also a scholar while his Dad was more a man of action, but they both had a kind of rough charm and both fought evil.

He’d never admitted it, not even to Sam, but he’d always had a bit of a fanboy crush on Harrison Ford. The glasses, the fedora and the bullwhip really burned something into his brain when he was 12 and saw _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ for the first time. 

He remembered how that first year after he’d raised Dean from Hell, Cas had been so somber and unemotional. Dean kept trying to humanize him, explaining bits of pop culture and trying to get him to understand basic things like personal space and the value of human life. He’d even forced Cas watch some classic movies, like _The Shawshank Redemption_ and _Raiders_ , to explain about heroic quests and free will. And how action movies were a crucial part of the human experience. For the most part, Cas didn’t get it.

Only toward the end of that horrible year, as more and more seals were broken and Castiel finally realized what was about to happen--when he rebelled--did Dean really start to _see_ the angel for who he was. He remembered the turning point, after Cas had zapped him out of the Green Room and they were talking to Chuck, trying to head Sam off from killing Lilith and breaking the final seal. 

Dean had skimmed a few pages of Chuck’s latest book-- _Lucifer Rising_ \--to find out where Sam was: St. Mary’s Convent. But Chuck, the ultimate dick, was confused. “You guys aren't supposed to be there. You're not in this story!” 

“Yeah, well, we're making it up as we go,” Cas had responded, utterly straight-faced.. Even in the midst of his desperation to find Sam, Dean had turned to Cas and given him a hard, openly assessing look. He couldn’t believe how _hot_ it was, to hear Cas quoting Indy.

They’d come so far since then. He needed to see Cas, to talk to him. Set things right and... maybe blurt out a confession of his own. If he could find the nerve.

He blew out a frustrated breath and turned his attention back to the hunt. “It’s the _Underworld_ ,” Bobby was saying, sounding exasperated. “You ain’t gonna find it in a damn atlas.”

“Well, we’ll never find it if we don’t look for it! We’ll have to get to Greece somehow--”

“Hang on, let me just call my Heavenly travel agent. Oh, wait, there’s no such thing.”

“Very funny.” John slammed the atlas closed. “What exactly do you propose, then? Just sit here and wait for Dean’s phone to ring again?”

“Well, what do you think we’re gonna do in Greece? Just find the Acheron and start digging?”

 _They’re digging in the wrong place_ , Dean could hear Indy saying, and something clicked. 

“You’re both wrong.” The minute he opened his mouth, they turned to him in unison, Bobby looking curious, his father annoyed.

“Nobody’s actually digging, Dean,” his father clarified. “It was a joke.”

Dean ignored his father’s patronizing tone. He decided not to try to explain about Indiana Jones; he doubted his father had ever seen the movie, and anyway, that wasn’t the point. “Yeah, Dad, I got that. I meant, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Says who?” Bobby asked. “You know something we don’t? Let’s hear it.”

Dean spread his hands in a gesture of expectation. “We’re dead.”

“Obviously.”

“So, there’s no point in looking at these maps and lore books. You’re not going to find Hades, or Hell or Purgatory for that matter, in an atlas. You can’t get there while you’re still alive; nobody can even find it. Only--”

“--only someone who’s already dead could get there,” Bobby finished for him, nodding slowly. “We’re wasting our time. Damn it.”

John looked pensive. “Then this is more complicated than I thought. Maybe impossible... I thought we’d start in Greece, but if Dean’s right, that won’t help. We’re back to square one. It’s not like there’s a map of the afterlife."

Dean nodded. “We’re going to need help.” Indy had his friend Sallah and that old guy with the beard--some kind of holy man or wizard, who told them where to look for the Lost Ark. “We need… uh, a guide. Someone who can show us where it is.”

“A guide,” John said flatly. “Who’ve you got in mind?”

“Me, I suppose.”

Dean felt the skin at the back of his neck prickling at the sound of the clipped British accent, the lazy drawl. He whirled around, eyes widening as he took in the light brown hair, the grey v-neck shirt, and the black jacket. 

“Balthazar,” he said, his mouth gaping in disbelief. Balthazar was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, in a pose of nonchalant indifference. “Uh, long time.”

“You look terrible, Dean,” Balthazar told him, a slight smirk on his lips. “Pining away for your angel, I suppose. And Bobby Singer,” he said, turning to face Bobby, who looked both stunned and suspicious. “A pleasure, as always.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be _dead_?” Bobby asked.

John took a menacing step forward. “Who the hell is this?” 

“The angel Balthazar, at your service. You must be John Winchester.” He tilted his head, looking John over, then shrugged. “From the way you loomed so large in your sons’ memories, I thought you’d be taller.”

Dean’s eyes widened a little at his father’s thunderous expression. Seeing Balthazar here, casually strolling into the Bunker’s library, had to be one of the strangest things he’d seen.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“I believe you three were asking for a guide to Hades, isn’t that right? You want to rescue Cassie from eternal punishment. Well,” he said magnanimously, “I offer my services.”

“Why would you want to rescue Cas?” Bobby asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “He killed you, remember?”

“Yes, well,” Balthazar gave an exaggerated shrug, “what’s a little betrayal between old friends? The point is, Cassie’s stuck in the bad place and I’d prefer not to leave him there. I’m sure Dean wants him back as well, don’t you, so you two lovebirds can get on with it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, not missing the assessing glance his father threw his way. “Cut the crap, Balthazar, we’re not--”

“Please,” Balthazar cut off his protest. “Castiel’s been in love with you for years, as I told you. If he’s finally plucked up the courage to declare his feelings, then what kind of a friend would I be to keep him from his boyfriend?”

“What does that mean?” John asked sharply, before Dean could get the words out to protest. When no one answered him, he pressed, “Dean? What’s going on between the two of you?”

“Nothing!” It was a bald-faced lie, and he could feel his cheeks heating up, betraying him. “Balthazar, you son of a bitch, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Why do you think Uriel’s got him chained up?” At Dean’s blank look, Balthazar grinned. “Some people like to enjoy the bliss of ignorance, I suppose.” 

Dean wasn’t sure where this was leading. “He’s a fallen angel. That’s why.”

“Oh, Dean. I’m so sorry to have to burst your innocent bubble.” Balthazar turned to Bobby, giving him a knowing look. “Care to fill him in? I’m sure _you_ have figured it out.”

Bobby sighed, and Dean knew he wasn’t going to like Bobby’s explanation.

“I was gettin’ to it. Just thought it would be better to have a more private conversation.”

Dean stole a glance at his father, who was watching them expressionlessly. Great. “Just spit it out, Bobby.”

Bobby paused, then said, “I did some thinking and researching after what you told me… about what Cas said to you at the end.”

“What research? And what does _that_ have to do with anything?"

“It has everything to do with it.” Bobby’s gaze softened, and his voice became gentler. “It’s about what’s between the two of you. I went back to the Book of Enoch, read some more about the Watchers.” 

“Enoch was a scrawny, strange little fellow,” Balthazar said, giving a little shudder. “Prone to visions and hallucinations. But he got this part right.”

Dean nodded warily. “He said the angels were imprisoned because they’d rebelled.”

“Well, Enoch explains _why_ they were considered rebellious. Uriel told him they transgressed the commandments of the Lord and that’s why they were being punished. They went astray. Specifically, they _connected themselves with women_.”

There was a beat of silence. Dean saw his father’s eyes narrow. 

“Bobby,” he said hastily, “I don’t see what this has to do with me. WIth Cas. This is about angels sleeping around with chicks.”

“It’s mostly an error of translation,” Balthazar said helpfully. “The gender pronouns were misleading. Angels consorting with humans of either sex is frowned upon.”

“What kind of _consorting_ are we talking about?” Dean asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“From what you said,” Bobby said, sounding as if he were choosing his words carefully, “your angel was pretty clear what he wanted.”

 _Crap._ Bobby was always more perceptive than Dean figured. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Cas and I never…”

“The lad doth protest too much, methinks,” Balthazar deadpanned. “Cassie wanted you, in every way. And I’m quite sure you wanted him as well.”

“But--”

“Maybe you never acted on it,” Bobby said, not unkindly, “but that may not make a difference. He told you he loved you, didn’t he? And you said you froze and didn’t say what you shoulda said. In my book, that ain’t a rejection. You’re in love with him, too.”

Hearing the words aloud sent a wave of panic through him. He felt as if Bobby had knocked away his defenses and left him transparent and exposed. He wanted desperately to deny it, but he couldn’t.

He remembered what Cas had said… and the look in his eyes as he said it. _Because the one thing I want... it's something I know I can't have._

 _Maybe you can_ , he’d wanted to say. He’d tried it out in his mind, hesitant and too chicken-hearted to actually open his mouth.

And then Cas had started to talk about _him_ , about how Dean was good, not broken and destructive. How Dean was selfless and caring. How he did everything for love. Dean could barely take it all in, could hardly accept what Cas was saying about him.

His throat had closed up and he felt he could hardly breathe, let alone speak. 

“Yeah,” he choked out, and then steadied his voice. “Yeah, I think I might be in love with him.”

He dared a glance at his father. John’s eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed, which was Dad-speak for _you’re-in-deep-shit_.

Shit, this was _not_ the way he wanted to come out to his father. 

“Adorable,” Balthazar said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well done, my boy. Now, if we could just rescue Cassie, maybe you’ll have the guts to tell _him_. In the meantime, I understand you’re looking for the entrance to Hades.”

“Well--” Dean started, and then nearly jumped out of his skin.

The four of them were standing on a rocky river bank. The water was brackish and foul, and a pungent odor of sulfur wafted up, irritating his nostrils. It was dark, and further up the river, flames danced on the water, reflecting lurid colors onto the high canyon bracketing the river.

“The River Styx, as promised,” Balthazar said, waving his hand in a grandiose sweep. “You’re welcome.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You’ll need these.” Balthazar tossed them each a thin silver coin. “Obols.”

Dean held the coin up, squinting to see better in the murky light. It looked like there was some kind of a bird on one face, and some symbols he couldn’t read on the other. The edges were uneven and it looked very old.

“I’ve seen coins like these before.” Bobby held the coin close to his eye. “The Greeks and Romans buried their dead with obols for centuries. It was supposed to be a payment for the ferryman, Charon, to take them into the world of the dead.”

“More like a bribe,” Balthazar said, scanning the horizon. “From what I understand, Charon’s got a bit of a temper and he won’t work for free.”

“Who’s this Charon?” John asked. He looked like he as trying to decide wwhether to listen to Bathazar or punch him in the face. 

“A low-level demon, I believe. A real smarmy fellow. He’ll take you across.” Balthazar shrugged indifferently. “Probably.”

“Don’t you mean, he’ll take _us_ across?” Dean asked. 

“I never said I was coming with you. Ah, there he is, right on time.”

Dean could just make out the outline of a small wooden boat, with someone standing at one end, holding a long pole.

“I’ll admit that a midnight ferry ride does sound delightful,” Balthazar said, “and it would be the decent thing to do, since none of you have any idea where you’re going. But I’m afraid I’m in just as much danger here as Castiel.”

“Why? Got a girlfriend stashed somewhere?” Dean asked, although he didn’t particularly care. He wondered why Castiel considered Balthazar such a friend; from what Dean could tell, he was a self-centered asshole most of the time.

Balthazar gave a put-upon sigh. “The life of pleasure I led, back in the day, raised a few eyebrows in some circles. Let’s just say I’d prefer not to run into Uriel. He has no sense of humor.”

“Well, I’ll agree with you on that point, you spineless dick,” Dean said angrily, “but from what I can see, Cas has terrible taste in friends.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You’re just leaving us here, then?” Bobby asked. “Where are we supposed to find Cas? And how the hell are we gonna get back?”

“We have no weapons, you fucking coward,” John growled. “We don’t even know where we _are_ , exactly.”

Balthazar patted John on the cheek. “You’ll work it out, I’m sure, with that can-do Winchester attitude.” John shrugged the touch away in annoyance.

“And Bobby’s got a working knowledge of Hades, I’m sure. And Dean… well, I’m sure you’ll find something to do to help.”

“You son of a--” Dean took a step toward Balthazar, but the angel was suddenly gone, leaving a puff of rustling air behind. “Damn it!”

“We’re better off without him,” John said. 

Bobby looked unconvinced. “Maybe. But we’re walking into this blind.”

  
  


The boat was drawing close; they could hear the sound of the waves lapping at its side. From out of the gloom, Dean could make out a tall figure with a long beard and a reddish-brown loincloth. His eyes had a yellowish gleam that sent a shudder through him.

Using the long pole, Charon pushed the boat up to the shore where they were standing. Now Dean could make him out clearly: his face was gaunt, his beard matted and tangled. He gave off a foul stench, like a pile of unwashed clothes. His eyes glinted in the light, malevolent and cold. 

Charon brought the boat to a halt, then waited, staring at them impassively.

Bobby took a step back, drawing Dean and John in closer. He pitched his voice low enough that they could barely hear him. “I don’t like this. We shouldn’t just get in that boat... We need a plan first.”

“I agree,” said John tightly. “We’re not ready. We have no idea what we’re dealing with. We should turn around, find our way out.”

“Do you see a way out?” Bobby asked pointedly. “Cause I don’t. And our ride just left to save his own ass.”

“I’ve been trying to conjure up a weapon since we arrived, but Heavenly magic doesn’t seem to work here.”

Dean didn’t want to get on the boat either. Charon’s creepy silence and weird yellow eyes were bad enough, and going into Hades with no weapons and no idea of what they were doing was practically suicidal. But the thought of giving up and going back was worse.

“Here’s the plan, then,” Dean said. “We get on the boat and pay for the ride. I’m not seeing another option here; Balthazar’s gone and we can’t go back the way we came.”

“Hate to say it, but I think you’re right,” John agreed with a grimace. “All right, we keep our eyes open. We have no idea what we’re facing.”

If that was all his Dad could come up with in terms of a plan, Dean thought, they were truly screwed.

The boat rocked slightly with their weight as they climbed silently aboard. It was flat, just two side panels connected by a series of wooden planks. They hunkered down uncomfortably at the bow of the boat. Dean breathed through his mouth and tried not to make a face at the smell. 

Using the pole and anchoring his legs in a sturdy, wide stance, Charon pushed off from the bank. Within minutes, all sight of the bank was swallowed by the misty darkness.

Charon didn’t pay them much attention as he pushed the pole down to the river bed, propelling the boat forward.

Dean was getting progressively more unsettled. Dean could see the whites of Bobby’s eyes as he stared up at Charon. John’s expression was grim. None of them spoke.

Dean felt scared, in a way he hadn’t been since he first landed in Purgatory, and before that, in Hell. He didn’t know the rules here. Years of dealing with vamps, werewolves, wraiths, angels, demons, and even God had given him a certain understanding of the ways things were set up on earth. He knew how to handle himself, how to protect himself, how to kill the things they were hunting.

Even in Hell, after a few years, Dean understood how things worked. Torture had a certain elegant arc to it: a terrifying beginning, a dreadful climax, and an end. Betrayal, deceit, confession, and redemption were the daily currency. Demons spoke to him all the time, their words needling at him, pricking him and bleeding him, and eventually offering relief. Bodies could be horrifically mutilated, and then resurrected in an instant. It was agonizing, but at least he _got_ it.

But this--Hades--was something new altogether. Charon might be a demon, but he wasn’t acting like any demon Dean had ever encountered. Angels seemed to have some power here, but some angels were clearly more equal than others.

Here they were dealing with a surreal mix of ancient Judaic scripture--which Dean vaguely understood--and Greek mythology, which he’d never cared about. Sam, as a kid, had gone through a phase when that was all he wanted to talk about, and Bobby obviously knew something about it. But all they really had to go on were some cryptic visionary texts and legends, which was a lot different from actual experience.

Plus, their guide had just ditched them. Fucking predictable.

Halfway through the crossing, Charon suddenly slowed the boat, using the pole to create a drag until they stopped, dead in the water.

He looked down at them, and then wordlessly extended his hand, palm up.

“Time to pay up,” Bobby said in a low voice. He fished the silver obol out of his shirt pocket, stood up shakily, and placed it in Charon’s palm. As he did, the demon inclined his head. John followed suit with his own coin.

Charon turned to Dean, palm held out. Dean took out his own obol and stood carefully. But as he leaned forward to give Charon the coin, a sudden swell in the river rocked the boat, and he stumbled slightly, trying to regain his balance. The coin flew out of his fingers and he grabbed for it, but he was too late.

Dean stared in horror as it sank into the Styx, swallowed up by the black waters and mist. 

Charon’s eyes flashed.

“Damn it, Dean!” John spat out. “How could you _drop_ it?”

“That’s not good,” Bobby agreed. “What the hell do we do now?”

Dean glanced up at Charon, who was still holding his hand out, silently waiting for Dean’s payment. Something in his eyes told Dean he wasn’t going to wait very long before tossing him out of the boat.

“It’s not that far to the other bank. I could swim,” Dean said doubtfully. He’d never seen water less inviting: murky and dark, smelling faintly of sulfur. 

“That water’s poisonous,” Bobby hissed. “You’ll die before you reach the other bank.”

“I’m open to suggestions!”

“Try paying him with something else. That ring of yours is silver, isn’t it?”

Dean pulled hastily at the ring on his right hand and placed it--carefully, this time--in Charon’s palm.

The demon closed his fist around it, shook his head, and then dumped it unceremoniously in the river. He turned back to Dean, palm still out, eyes cold.

“Maybe… it wasn’t the right kind of silver?” Dean suggested.

John’s gold wedding band, offered without hesitation, met the same fate as Dean’s ring. Dean heard his father’s sharp hiss of disappointment as his ring plopped into the river, and he cringed internally. His father had never taken off his wedding ring before now, as far as he knew. 

“Dad, I’m sorry,” he croaked out, flushed with guilt. How had this gone to shit so fast?

“Think of something else, Bobby,” John said, fixing Dean with a glare that reminded him of a dozen other fuck-ups from his childhood. “We’re running out of time.”

“I’m thinking, I’m hinking…” Bobby muttered. “Okay, I remember something, but... I don’t know. There’s a story about Orpheus, who was a famous Greek musician. He was tryin’ to get into the underworld after his wife Eurydice died. He didn’t have an obol, but he was able to charm you-know-who into taking him across the Styx by playing his lyre.”

Dean felt his momentary hope fade. “I left my lyre at the Bunker. Do you have anything _useful_?” 

“Far as I know, Orpheus is the only one who managed to get across without paying,” Bobby told him. “Well, unless you count--”

“Wait,” John said. “Dean can sing.”

“What?” Dean yelped. “No, forget it!”

“Sure you can,” his father said. “C’mon, Dean, I heard you singing in the shower for years. You’ve got a nice voice.”

“He does?” Bobby sounded surprised. “I never heard him sing a note.”

“You always told me to stop making all that racket--” 

“Because you always took too long, using up all the hot water!”

Charon, who appeared to be listening to their whispered conversation, took a menacing step forward.

“It’s worth a try,” Bobby prodded. “I’m not seein’ another choice here.”

“Are you serious? I can’t sing to this demon!” His throat felt like it was closing up. Breathing was challenging enough.

John nudged him forward, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. “Go ahead, son.”

Okay, this was totally bizarre. His father had never encouraged him in his life to sing, and supportive squeezes were few and far between.

“What should I sing?”

“Something soothing, I guess.”

“Like what?” Most of his repertoire was classic rock, Led Zeppelin, Metallica. Should he sing a lullaby? Did he even _know_ a lullaby?

“It doesn’t matter!” his father snapped. “Just sing something!”

Charon reached out, grabbed him by the arm—fuck he was strong—and started dragging him to the side of the boat.

Black water. A song clicked into his mind.

He drew in a breath. “ _Well, I built me a raft and she's ready for floatin'_ ,” he started, barely above a whisper and oh shit, he should have chosen a song with a stronger lead-in. His voice was pitchy and wobbly.

Bobby threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders and tried to pull him back. John kicked out at the demon’s legs, but he was being pulled inexorably toward the water.

“ _Ol' Mississippi, she's callin' my name_...”

The words caught in his throat. He felt ridiculous, and scared, and anyway it wasn’t working. Maybe Charon was only charmed by instrumental music, or Greek tunes, or show tunes, who the hell knew.

The smell of the water was in his nostrils, and he desperately wanted a knife, a gun, anything to protect himself. Instead, he kept choking out the words of the song.

“ _Catfish are jumpin', that paddle wheel thumpin'_...” Crap, what were the next words? 

He missed a beat, humming a bit, “...da da da _rollin' on past just the same_ …

“Dean!” his father barked, sounding as angry as he’d ever been, “for God’s sake, stop fucking around and _do your job_!”

John’s fury shocked him into focus. A _yes sir_ bubbled up from his gut, turning the volume down on everything but the task at hand. The stench of the river, his terror, Bobby’s shouts, and even the pain in his arm where Charon had him clenched in his grip--nothing registered except the music that was playing in his head.

“ _Old black water, keep on rollin'_...” His voice got stronger, the beat clearer.

“ _Mississippi moon, won't you keep on shinin' on me_ …”

Charon stilled, looking down at him. He was listening. 

He released his grip on Dean’s arm and Dean sank down gratefully, his muscles trembling with adrenaline. Beside him, his father and Bobby quieted as well. 

“ _Old black water, keep on rollin'.. Mississippi moon, won't you keep on shinin' on me… Yeah, keep on shinin' your light, gonna make everything, pretty mama, gonna make everything all right_ …”

Dean put a bit more resonance into the tone, which was hard because he was still on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Keep going, son,” John told him quietly. “You’re doing good.”

Charon picked up the pole and pushed off again, as Dean sat back down shakily. Keeping his eyes fixed on the demon, he sang about Dixieland and dancing all night long.

  
  


The song ended, and Dean dared to glance at his father and Bobby. Bobby’s face was white, but he shot Dean a look of relief.

John was looking at him warily, with an expression Dean couldn’t decipher. “Sing another,” he prodded in a whisper. 

Dean nodded. Maybe another river song; Charon seemed to like that last one. 

“ _In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep_ ,” he began. Billy Joel wasn’t his typical fare, but at least this song began with a strong rhythm and a catchy tune.

“ _From the mountains of faith, to the river so deep_ …”

The boat jerked, and Dean realized Charon was dragging the pole again to bring them to a stop.

His voice faltered, but he pressed on. “ _I must be looking for something, something sacred I lost…_ ”

“Dean,” Bobby said in his ear, “I don’t think he likes this one.”

Not knowing what else to do, Dean kept singing, trying to put more energy into the lyrics: “ _But the river is wide, and it's too hard to cross_.”

“Stop,” John told him. “This isn’t helping.”

Charon’s lips curled into an evil smile, and he held out his hand again, palm up, clearly asking for payment.

“Oh, fuck.” Not this again. The demon had been toying with him, he realized belatedly. Another minute, maybe two, and he’d be going overboard.

He could see the other bank from here; it wasn’t that far. Maybe he could make it, although he was never much of a swimmer. He was going to have to be careful not to drink any of the river water, and--

John charged at the demon in an explosive burst of movement.

Bobby was only a split-second behind, lunging forward to grab Charon’s arm, trying to pull him off balance. Dean’s sluggish brain finally caught up, and he aimed a sweeping kick at Charon’s legs.

John chopped at the arm holding the pole, and when Charon’s grip loosened, Dean grabbed the pole and flipped it around to point back at the demon. The moment John gave him an opening, he rammed the end into the demon’s throat and pushed as hard as he could.

Charon fell back, his momentum carrying him over the side and into the water. There wasn’t much of a splash.

Breathing hard, Dean watched the black waters close over Charon’s body.

“Jesus, John, that was some quick thinking,” Bobby breathed. “I was out of ideas.”

‘You picked up on my lead pretty quickly.” 

They waited, scanning the waters and listening, but the waters stayed quiet and there was no sign of the demon. 

“I think he’s gone,” John said. 

“Holy _shit_ , Dad, I was trying to figure if I could swim for it…” Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I should have been ready.”

John smiled, looking pleased with himself. “No need to apologize. You were focused on what you were doing, just like I asked you to be. You did good--but he was a demon. His eyes gave him away. He was only biding his time.”

“I should’ve seen--”

John shook his head. “It only worked because he was caught by surprise, and that’s because he was watching you, not me. While you were serenading him, I was planning my attack.”

Dean was taken aback. “Is that why you--”

“--told you to do your job, yeah. You looked like you needed a poke in the ass to start your warbling.”

Dean was torn between resentment that John still knew that part of him so well--he had to remind himself that this was a good thing, and had probably saved him from a dip in the Styx--and admiration that his father was working on Plan B while Dean was singing.

“Actually,” Bobby said with a sheepish smile, “as I was gonna tell you before Dean started his performance, I know of one other case where somebody got across the Styx without paying. Heracles.”

When John and Dean gave him matching blank looks, he sighed. “You guys really need to expand your horizons. The Romans called him _Hercules_.”

“Oh.” Sam would’ve known that, Dean thought.

“For his twelfth labor, he went into Hades. He didn’t have an obol, but he forced Charon to ferry him across the Styx. According to some versions, he used his shield to disarm him and wrestled him into submission.”

Dean huffed. “You couldn’t have told us that before I had to give a free concert?”

Bobby shrugged. “Well, John was right, you _do_ have a nice voice.” 

“Wait,” John said, a slow grin spreading over his face. “So you’re saying, we just outdid Hercules?”

“Put a pin in it, John. If your head keeps swelling like that, we’re gonna capsize. And I hate to break up this little party, but we’re still in the middle of the river and we still don’t know where we’re going.”

Dean sighed, then picked up the pole and pushed it down until it met the river bed. No time like the present, then. The boat glided forward toward the bank.

In the distance, he could see lights.

He squinted into the gloom. Wait, were those _traffic lights_?

As they climbed out of the boat, he could hear car horns beeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two songs Dean sings in this chapter are "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers and "River of Dreams" by Billy Joel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All references to Greek mythology are from my own assiduous Googling. Please don't take offense.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Dean said as they trudged cautiously over the river bank. His toe wasn’t happy about the climb, but once the terrain levelled out it didn’t bother him. 

In the pre-dawn gleam, he couldn’t make out much except for the line of cars moving past, their headlights casting an eerie illuminated beam on the road. 

“This is a two-lane highway,” Bobby agreed. “None of the lore books I’ve ever read about Hades mention anything like _that_.”

“Where are they all heading?” John asked, sounding similarly bewildered.

Vaguely, in the distance ahead, Dean could see the outlines of buildings and neon signs. “Is that a shopping center?” he asked. “So they use _money_ here? And eat fast food?”

“There’s a sign up ahead, looks like,” Bobby said, interrupting his thoughts. “Can’t really read it...”

“It says Asphalt Meadows,” Dean said, squinting at it in the dim light. “I think. Kind of a depressing name, but it makes sense, there’s plenty of road here.”

Bobby groaned. “Aw, hell, I know where we are. It’s not Asphalt Meadows, it’s _Asphodel_ Meadows.”

Dean looked again. “Yeah… maybe you’re right. What do you know about it?”

Bobby sighed. “You never heard of it?”

Dean gave his father an I-got-no-clue shrug. “Assume we don’t know,” John said, exasperated. “Just go ahead and enlighten us before somebody notices us.”

“You two related somehow?” Bobby asked sarcastically. “Fine. Supposedly, there are three parts to the afterlife. Heaven, Hell, and… well, the Greeks called it the Fields of Asphodel. Asphodel’s a kind of pale, grayish flower, not real pretty but not ugly, either. Just kind of neutral.”

He inclined his head toward the traffic ahead. “Catholics call it Limbo. The outer edge of Hell.”

“Limbo?” The only thing Dean knew about Limbo was that it was full of babies, or something like that. Not highways.

“Limbo is where most everybody goes after they die, except the lucky ones who make it to Heaven and the poor shmucks who’re sent downstairs. You know how it is,” Bobby shrugged. “Most people ain’t evil, and not particularly good either. Just kinda mediocre."

“Limbo has cars?” John asked skeptically, clearly thinking along the same lines. “And road signs?” 

Further ahead, there was a sound of a collision. Car horns beeped, and a minute later they could hear angry shouts.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Seems like it has traffic accidents.”

“Supposedly, it’s pretty much like regular life, just kind of a paler version of it. Grim. Repetitive and aimless.”

“So what’s the end game?” John asked. “They just keep living their mediocre lives, going about their boring business?”

“Something like that.”

“For how long?”

Bobby pursed his lips and shrugged. “Damned if I know.” 

The skies gradually lightened but stayed overcast as they walked, following the highway but keeping their distance. The cars slowed, moving almost bumper to bumper. Dean could make out--just barely--the occupants of the cars, staring ahead lifelessly. It gave him the creeps.

The landscape changed suddenly; the road disappeared and they were standing in a wooded area. The highway was gone. 

Dean gave a hiss of exasperation. Limbo apparently used the same reality-shifting software as Heaven. It left him off-balance and annoyed, with his brain struggling to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

They were standing in front of a small RV, painted beige with blue and red stripes. Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“Guys, I know this trailer,” he said quietly. “Listen, I think we should--”

“Off my property!” a familiar voice yelled, and the barrel of a shotgun poked out from the window. “You have five seconds!”

“It’s Dean Winchester, Frank!” he called out hastily, just as Bobby muttered, “Oh, geez.”

“Dean who?”

“Come off it, you know who I am!”

“Frank Devereaux, you jackass, get that damn shotgun out of our faces!”

The gun was pulled back, and a second later, the door opened a crack, just enough so they could see Frank’s unsmiling face. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Charlie Brown and Snoopy! I might have known.”

“Who the hell is this?” John growled. 

“I ask the questions here, Linus! Who the hell are _you_?”

John took a step forward, fixing Frank with a hard stare.“I’m John Winchester.”

Frank opened the door wider, stepping forward so they could see him clearly. He was wearing his usual nondescript clothes--a baggy sweater with a white-collared shirt underneath--and thick glasses. He held the shotgun in both hands defensively.

“Normally,” he said in a conversational tone, “I’d want to see some ID, maybe a retinal scan or some good old-fashioned bloodletting with a silver knife.”

John gave him a grin that didn’t match the cold expression in his eyes. “Hand me a knife. I’ll show you some bloodletting.”

“But I can tell from your knee-jerk macho reaction that you’re Dean’s father. You must be so proud.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He hadn’t missed Frank’s sarcasm and put-downs.

“You gonna invite us in?” Bobby asked. “Give us the lay of the land? We could use some advice.”

The shotgun was pointed back at their faces. “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Uh, no, absolutely not,” Dean stammered, trading a look with Bobby. Frank might be dead, but his paranoia was obviously as healthy as ever.

“Superhero Dean Winchester and his sidekick Bobby Singer wind up in Asphodel all of a sudden?” Frank scoffed. “Sorry, not buying it! Who are you _really_?”

“Frank,” Bobby said, exasperated, “I saved your life, remember?” 

“Yeah, and I owed you one, so I helped Dean because you asked, and got myself killed for it!”

“Uh… sorry about that,” Dean said apologetically. “Really. But we need your help--”

“How surprising.”

“--and we’re here because, uh, actually it’s a long story...”

“And I’m supposed to care?”

“C’mon, Frank! You _know_ me.”

Frank looked at him, considering. “I’m tempted to agree, just for the break in routine.”

“Great--”

“Not so fast! Tell me something only _you_ would know.”

“Uh…” Dean paused, thinking. “You made me and Sam fake IDs. Tom and John Smith.”

“Of course I did!” Frank gave Bobby a look of disgust. “You sent me a pair of amateurs! This one was using an ID that said Lars Ulrich and his brother was somebody from Motörhead. I couldn’t figure out how they’d stayed alive before they met me.”

“Dean, I taught you better than that,” John said. 

Dean couldn’t stop the wave of embarrassment that washed through him at the thought that his dad was disappointed in him. _Damn it_. “Nobody ever caught on, Dad,” he said defensively.

" _I_ did!"

“Frank, it’s _us_. Let us in and we’ll explain.”

Frank sighed. “Fine. But don’t expect me to get involved. I’m not getting killed again for you.” He lowered the gun and turned to go inside, and the three men followed.

  
  


“So let me see if I got this straight,” Frank said slowly. “You bozos just ditched Heaven, which everyone’s dying to get to, and took off for places unknown looking for an angel friend who’s in trouble. You _think_ ,” he emphasized, “because you don’t really know for sure. How very noble of you.” 

Inside the cramped RV, every available surface was loaded down with papers, books, electronics, and cobbled-together computers. Frank took the chair next to the table, Dean found a spot against a wall, and Bobby and John crowded into the small kitchenette. 

“So for the sake of argument,” he continued, “let’s just say it’s him trying to contact you and he’s really in trouble. You don’t actually know how to get where he is or, assuming you even manage to find him, how to get back to your cozy life in Heaven. And now you’re stuck in Limbo and you want me to unstick you.”

“Something like that.” Put that way, it really did sound idiotic.

“We didn’t have time to finalize the plan,” Bobby told him. “So we’re improvising.” 

Frank shook his head, looking like he couldn’t believe how dumb they all were. “This isn’t a Hollywood action film! Do you even have any idea what this place _is_? It’s the land of mediocrity! It’s boring, pointless, and crowded. It’s your worst nightmare of suburbia. On a good day, it’s standing in line at the DMV for hours and then finding out you forgot your ID at home.”

Dean nodded in sympathy. “I’m sure that sucks, Frank, but--”

“But nothing! Asphodel is an endless, inescapable mosquito buzzing next to your ear that you can never catch.”

Dean paused, unsure how to respond. “Uh, I guess they have no insect repellant here?”

“It’s a _metaphor_ , Buffy. Take a look at this.” Frank reached over and turned on what looked like an old-fashioned TV. At first Dean couldn’t make out much except for static, but Frank fiddled with the antennas and the picture cleared.

“... and in other news,” a middle-aged female newscaster was reporting, “the bakery strike, now in its 79th day, is causing shortages in bread and fresh pastries. Frozen bagels are widely available, although prices are skyrocketing.”

Frank changed the channel. “... so ask your doctor if Flatulex is right for you. Users of this medication have experienced side effects which include dry mouth, gas, itchiness, insomnia, facial tics, migraine headaches, temporary blindness--”

He turned the dial again. This channel was showing the interior of a large, brightly lit home. Two people were sitting on a cream-colored couch. One seemed to be listening to music through her earphones; the other was cracking seeds and spitting the husks into a bowl. Both of them looked bored and neither of them spoke to the other.

“Reality TV,” Frank said, in explanation. “It’s called ‘Roommates.’ Gets top ratings.”

A final channel revealed a movie. “Hey, that’s John Belushi in the toga,” John commented in surprise. “Animal House! Not a great movie, but still…”

“Exactly!” Frank pointed a finger at John in emphasis. “Not a great movie. Unless you’re into frat boys and college pranks.” He directed an accusing glare at Dean. “ _Are_ you into frat boys?”

“No!”

Frank shrugged indifferently. “Honest mistake. Anyway, you get the idea. It’s not quality entertainment. Last week they put on ‘Sophie’s Choice’ but the sound cut out halfway through.”

Dean listened glumly to Frank’s descriptions of life in Asphodel Fields: the constant traffic, the poor Limbonet reception, the bureaucracy, the lines. “People! Everywhere!” he complained. “I’m about as far off the grid as you can get here, and I have nosy neighbors living a block away. Last week one of ‘em came by, wanting me to help fix their TV reception!” He shook his head in disbelief. “I had to scare ‘em off with my shotgun. Nobody respects personal space up here.”

“So,” Bobby said carefully, “I guess the legends are true. You wind up here if you’re not really good, not really evil.”

“They told me I was antagonistic, self-centered, and ‘lacked altruistic tendencies.’” That sounded about right to Dean, although he didn’t say so to Frank.

“You were a paranoid know-it-all who nearly blew my head off the first time we met--”

“Don’t you know how to _knock_ , Singer?”

“--when I was saving your damn life from a pair of harpies!”

Privately, Dean thought it was a little unfair. Sure, Frank had been a real bastard, but he’d come through in the end. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time telling Dean he was a halfwit, but he knew his stuff and he helped them fight the Leviathan. He wasn’t happy seeing Frank stuck in this bleak place. 

“Frank,” he said awkwardly, “can’t you, I don’t know, appeal the ruling?”

Frank gave a bitter laugh. “Aw, thanks, Suzy Q, but I think I’ll pass. Better this than a trip downstairs. Hang on… “ He plucked a small pamphlet from the books on the shelf behind him and tossed it to Dean. “Take a look for yourself. It’s the rule book I got when I first arrived. Very user-friendly.”

The cover of the pamphlet showed a trio of unsmiling, ghostly faces against a background of somber grey. It was titled _You and Your Afterlife_. Dean flipped it open.

 _Welcome to Asphodel Fields_ , it began, _where you will spend your eternity in neutrality, compromise, and banality, as you lived your life._

Ouch.

_This manual will help you understand the regulations, possibilities, and limitations of your new circumstances. It contains valuable information that will help you find acceptance and even satisfaction in your situation. Remember, Limbo is a privilege, not a right._

Most of the manual seemed to be concerned with forms, permits, and rules. He opened to a random page and read: _Any person desiring to make repairs to any automobile, bicycle, recreational vehicle, or motorcycle shall make an application for said permit using Form 137B. Permits are issued for a term of 48 hours, after which an extension may be applied for using Form 138A._

Sheesh. He looked over the table of contents, then flipped to the only chapter which seemed relevant: “Appealing Your Judgment: Making or Breaking Your Case.” 

_Heaven is the resting place of the righteous and the heroic_ . _You have reached Asphodel Fields because you have been judged and found wanting. If you believe you have reason to appeal and new information you wish to provide, you will be granted an audience._

 _But take care: a new judgment in your case may result in a harsher sentence._

What a fucking catch-22. If the people in Limbo had shown more courage and conviction in their daily lives, they’d never have been sent here in the first place… and they couldn’t get out because they didn’t have the guts to risk getting sent somewhere worse.

One of the electronic contraptions on the desk let out a series of beeps, and Frank jumped up in alarm. He tapped a few keys on a keyboard and frowned at the screen.

“I knew it! You need to leave,” he told them tersely, reaching for his shotgun. He opened the door of the RV just enough to peek outside. “They’re not here yet. Go!”

“What happened?” Dean asked as Frank herded them toward the door, almost pushing them in his haste to get them out.

“You tripped a wire. Or something. Did you let them know you were here?”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“Hurry up!”

Just as they stepped out of the RV, a tremendous bolt of lightning lit the sky and there was a deafening crack of thunder.

“Run!” Frank yelled. He ducked back inside the trailer and slammed the door. Dean could hear a muffled “And don’t come back here!” through the wall.

“What an ass,” John muttered. “No wonder he wound up here.”

“He is here deservedly. But you are not,” a voice intoned in a rich baritone. It seemed to be coming from several directions at once, but Dean couldn’t see anyone. The air seemed charged, as if a storm was about to break. 

In the distance, three orbs of brilliant light appeared on the horizon.

Without a word, Dean stepped closer to Bobby and John, wishing fervently for a weapon, just to give his hands something to do.

“Who’s there?” John yelled. 

The orbs drew closer. Squinting, Dean could make out vague outlines of three men. “They’re the guys from that pamphlet Frank had,” he whispered. “ _You and Your Afterlife_.”

Bobby muttered “Balls!” under his breath. 

“John Winchester!” the disembodied voice thundered. “Explain your purpose in Asphodel Meadows.”

“Don’t say anything,” Bobby warned quickly. “If these spirits are what I think they are…”. 

Another voice rang out, higher-pitched and calm. “You have been judged and rewarded for your heroic deeds. You do not belong here. What say you?”

John traded an apprehensive look with Bobby, who shrugged helplessly.

“Then return to your rightful place.”

Instantly, John disappeared, leaving only a faint rustling of displaced air. 

“Dad!” Dean shouted. “What the--”

“Where did he go?” Bobby demanded. “You three! Are you the Judges?”

The baritone was back. “We are Aeacus, Minos, and Rhadamanthys. We are the Judges of human souls.”

“What’s going on, Bobby?” Dean hissed. “I’ve never heard of these guys!”

Bobby looked spooked. “They’re the three spirit judges, sons of Zeus, according to Greek lore. They decide what happens to each soul after death.”

A third voice, deeper than the others, said, “Robert Singer. You dedicated your life on earth to fighting evil. You have been judged and rewarded. Why have you come to the Underworld of the Unworthy?”

Bobby swallowed nervously. He traded an anxious look with Dean. “Uh... we’re trying to help a friend?”

“You speak without conviction. We will return you as well.”

Bobby was suddenly no longer at Dean’s shoulder. Dean gaped at the empty place where he’d been. He was alone.

“Wait, wait!” he yelled. Things were happening too fast. He damped down a rush of terror-- _They’re fine, they’re back in Heaven, keep your focus_ \--and took a shaky breath. He had no idea what would convince these three disembodied spirits to listen, much less help him. He felt completely out of his depth. “Listen to me, we’re-- Uh, _I’m_ on a rescue mission. My friend’s an angel and I think he’s being held captive. He needs my help… He belongs in Heaven.”

The baritone responded, “We do not interfere in the ways of angels, Dean Winchester.” It was creepy the way they knew who he was. “We are here only to judge human souls. You have lived a heroic and righteous life. Your place is in Elysium, which you call Heaven.”

“But I got a message from Cas,” Dean said desperately. “Castiel, the angel. I can’t leave him to rot, he doesn’t deserve--”

“You received a call?” the tenor interrupted.

“Um…” Dean hesitated. “It was actually more of a text message than a call.”

Silence greeted his words. He wondered if they even understood what he’d said. 

“Yes,” he clarified, injecting as much confidence as he could into his tone. “I received a call from the angel.”

“Show us.”

He felt a strange, unpleasant wave of energy move through him, and he closed his eyes, recoiling instinctively. It was gone almost as soon as it came, leaving his limbs tingling and twitching and his ears ringing slightly. “What the hell was that? What did you do?” 

The pause that followed made him really nervous. These beings were obviously ancient and powerful, and he was out on a ledge, toying with his own afterlife. Maybe he should tell them why he was so desperate to find Cas, but how would he even put that into words they could understand? 

This was insane. Maybe he should just go back to Heaven, let his foot heal, do some more research, get Balthazar to outfit him with a workable weapon and some useful information about whatever the hell he was facing. Wait for another text message.

But it wasn’t in him to give up. He waited, hoping whatever they’d done to him would show them enough to let him keep going.

The reply came, finally. “We have seen your quest and it is just,” the baritone voice intoned, with the gravity of a weighty pronouncement. “We will allow you to continue, as we allowed our brother Heracles to do, many ages ago.” 

Dean felt a quick burst of relief, but he could tell his window of opportunity was slamming shut. “That’s super, but I need help,” he said quickly. “I’m flying blind, here. I have no weapon, no map, no idea how to get to where he is… Please. Let me have a knife. Something.” He waited, then said more uncertainly, “Anything at all would be awesome, guys.”

“Heracles used his bare hands and his bow,” came the dismissive response. 

Perfect.

He tried to squeeze something out of his memory about Heracles--he had a vague recollection of his 7th grade teacher doing a unit on Greek mythology and Hercules--but all he could recall was his strength and something about a bull.

“You sent my dad and Bobby back. I can’t do this alone,” he said, hearing the echo of another moment, not so long ago. What he wouldn’t give to have Sam here with him. 

“All great quests are done alone.”

“Look,” he said desperately, “I’m not Heracles! I don’t have super strength. I need a weapon. And not a bow and arrow. A knife, at the very least!”

“We do not provide assistance of that sort,” the baritone said with finality, and Dean felt his stomach clench. Damn it. “To enter Tartarus, you will need the hands of a warrior and the heart of a hero.”

“What’s Tartarus?”

“It is the abyss of torment where the wicked suffer and rebellious angels are chained.”

That sounded suspiciously Hellish. “I won’t stand a chance without a weapon,” he said, feeling suddenly hopeless. This was foolish and stupid. He’d never willingly go on a hunt like this, knowing absolutely nothing about what he was facing, with no backup, no way of defending himself--except his bare hands, like Heracles, ha ha--and not even a map.

One of the figures suddenly solidified before him. The gleaming light dimmed and Dean could see it was an old man, bearded and dignified, wearing a long, woolen cloak. “I am Aeacus,” he said in a pleasant, normal baritone. “I speak for the Three. It seems to us that you do not understand. We have determined that your quest is worthy and we will allow you to pass through Asphodel to Tartarus.”

He waited, and Dean felt as if a formal reply was expected. “Thank you.”

“We have weighed your request for assistance. We will not provide you with a weapon, for you must prove your courage and belief through your actions. But we will not send you empty-handed.”

He reached inside the cloak and withdrew an object. It looked like a sort of copper hat, with a mask meant to cover the eyes and nose.

“The Helm of Hades.” Aeacus held it out to Dean. “Do not let your courage falter. We will be watching.”

“Uh, thanks, but what does it _do_?” His voice faded out on the last word, as he realized he was alone. The Judges were gone.

The landscape shifted.

He was standing at the edge of an enormous pit. The skies were dark, but by the dim light he could see the rocky and uneven ground, dotted here and there with steam. By his feet, an oily stream bubbled and hissed, releasing an unpleasant odor of sulfur.

Holy shit, it looked like Mordor.

There was no one in sight, but he kept his voice low, almost a whisper. “Cas, if you can hear me, I’m on my way.” Placing the Helm on his head and over his face, he added, “Keep an eye out for me, okay? I look like Batman.”

He started forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to google the Helm of Hades, a.k.a. the Helm of Darkness, if you're curious.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had walked only a few steps into the pit when he stopped abruptly. “What the--”

He waved his arm in front of his face. The Helm of Hades didn’t sit on him perfectly, and the eye holes were a little too wide-set for his comfort, but he could see well enough.

He just couldn’t see his _arm_. It was like it wasn’t there.

Looking down, seeing blank space where his legs and feet should be, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had a moment of horror, wondering if his body was somehow just _gone_ , but he could reach down and feel the fabric of his jeans. He kicked at the dirt in front of him, and it flew up reassuringly, so he was pretty sure his foot was still there inside his steel-toed boot.

 _Damn_. He had an fucking Helmet of Invisibility. 

He gave the spirit judges an internal nod of appreciation. Maybe it wasn’t as good as a knife, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. At least he could walk around without being observed.

He wandered aimlessly for a while, with no real sense of which way to go, stepping carefully over sulfur deposits and trying to avoid pools of hot water. It was rugged terrain, and more than once he stumbled in the gloom, tripping over the rocks that lay everywhere. 

Occasionally he stopped and held absolutely still, listening for long minutes, hardly daring to breathe, but he couldn’t hear any movement. It was dead silent. Even with the sharp senses of a trained hunter, he didn’t feel like he was being watched.

There was no one here. He was absolutely alone, wandering in a kind of geothermal pit. 

It was freaking the hell out of him. 

Even in Purgatory, when he was on his own, he was never _alone_. He always had the sense that something was hiding in the shadows, watching him, hunting him. There were always monsters around to kill, and then, after a while, he and Benny had been a team. And he knew Cas was around, somewhere, even if he couldn’t find him.

Sam had accused him more than once of being terrified of being alone, which was fair enough, since he’d proven over and over again that he’d do anything for his brother. But there was a difference between being on his own and being literally, absolutely alone.

This was like Mark Watney stranded on Mars, all alone and with no way to communicate with Houston. Mark, at least, had the Hab and a vague hope of being rescued. Dean, though, was in deeper shit. What was he supposed to do here, just walk around? What if he never found his way out--would he wander here forever?

He kept moving automatically, unsure of what else to do. The light remained dim and the rocky terrain never evened out. It all looked the same; he could have been walking in circles, for all he knew. He was beginning to lose track of time. He kept his eyes focused ahead, because every time he looked down and didn’t see his body, it sent a shudder of existential horror through him. 

Alastair could have broken him a lot quicker if he’d tried _this._

A low rumble in the distance brought him to a sudden stop. He waited, absolutely still, and then he heard it again: a low-pitched growl, like a dog giving a warning, and then another one, deeper and louder.

Great. Tartarus had guard dogs. But on the bright side, at least he wasn’t alone any more.

He drew close. The growling continued and he could hear the clinking of metal, which he hoped fervently was a chain around their necks. There was a flickering light coming from ahead, as if from a bonfire, but he couldn’t see any flames.

The ground rose in front of him in a steep hill, blocking him from seeing whatever was beyond. He climbed carefully, trying to keep his steps light and soft. Ducking down instinctively as he got near the top, even though he knew he was invisible, he peeked over.

Son of a _bitch_.

An enormous wall stretched out in front of him as far as he could see. There seemed to be only one opening: a tall wrought-iron arch, about twenty yards away, like a gate. Except instead of a door, there was a band of fire stretching underneath the arch from side to side. He couldn’t see over the wall, and the fire prevented him from seeing through the gate.

Chained in front of the gate was an enormous three-headed… monster. Beast. Dog? He didn’t know what to call it. Whatever it was, it was straining against the heavy metal chain, and each oversized head was grunting, growling, and generally projecting menace.

It was clearly aware of him. And mad.

Heart pounding, he backed down the hill--What the hell _was_ that?--and let himself sink down onto the ground. 

Jesus fuck, he was screwed. 

The three-headed dog was obviously guarding the fiery Gates of Tartarus, and unless he managed to tame the puppies or speak the magic password, there was no way he was getting by them. Not to mention the fire he’d have to jump through to get to the other side.. where God-knew-what would be waiting for him.

That Aeacus dude and his pals must be really laughing it up right now. Ha ha, the joke was on Dean all right… How were “the hands of a warrior and the heart of a hero” going to help him here? He was going to need to kill or incapacitate that thing, and being invisible wasn’t going to cut it. Especially since it obviously could sense him, maybe even smell him.

Dean really had nothing against dogs, especially cute furry ones like Miracle, but this feral monstrosity looked like it couldn’t wait to tear him to shreds.

The dogs had gone suspiciously quiet. As silently as he could, he crawled back up the incline, daring another glance over the hill.

Lit from behind by the flames, the beast stood on sturdy limbs, feet planted, while each head scanned the area. All of them looked just as threatening as before. Two of the heads were growling softly, while the third let out a deep-throated bark that sent Dean scrambling back.

What the hell was he going to do?

_Pull yourself together, Dean. You don’t have time for this._

Great, his subconscious could channel his father berating him, even in Hades. 

His father had a point, though: cringing here on this hill, trying not to breathe too loud, wasn’t going to get him through that gate. His usual strategies of dealing with attack dogs--avoid eye contact, ignore, and back away slowly--were obviously not going to help him here. Maybe he should just stand up, face the beast like the hunter he was, and… what? Wrestle it to the ground?

 _That plan sucks, Dean,_ Sam’s voice now echoed in his mind. _You can’t wrestle that thing, it’s huge._

 _I’m open to ideas_ , he thought sullenly. _I don’t have anything to kill it with._

 _Find something_. _Research it._

Subconscious-Sam was a real bitch, but he was right. Dean didn’t really know anything about the dog. He was going to have to learn more, if he was ever going to have a chance of killing it, and that meant he had to get closer.

After two hours of reconnaissance, watching the evil triplets from an uncomfortable perch just over the top of the hill, he had learned nothing he could describe as helpful. Or encouraging.

First of all, they had acute hearing. Every time Dean inched forward or changed position--the rocks were digging into his knees--the beast immediately tensed, stalking back and forth in front of the gate, drawing its lips back and snarling. Sneaking up on it wasn’t going to be an option.

And its heads could react independently. Dean had tossed a pebble just to its left, just to see what would happen. The dog lunged toward it, barking and straining at the chain. But one of the heads held itself upright and stiff, looking unnervingly in Dean’s direction. 

Point three: its teeth were huge. And sharp. There were bones scattered all around, including a skull and what looked like a human femur. The femur might actually have made a good stick to whack it with, but Dean was not at all inclined to get close enough to grab it.

In all his years as a hunter, he couldn’t remember a situation as fucked up as this one. He’d been up against some badass monsters in his day, even an archangel or two… but never like this, empty-handed and alone. He was okay being the underdog in the fight, but this was ridiculous.

His lips quirked in a half-smile. The underdog vs. the three-headed dog from hell. Too bad nobody was around to appreciate his awesome sense of humor.

And… he had an idea. Who was the ultimate underdog? David. As in David and Goliath.

David and his slingshot. If David could kill a giant with one well-aimed shot to the head, Dean could knock out three puppies. A slingshot was primitive and deadly. It was the perfect weapon. 

Except that it wasn’t. It didn’t take long to realize that building a slingshot was a lot more complicated than he thought, especially since there was no wood here. He thought about ripping up his leather boot and using it somehow to make a pouch, but without a knife, it was basically a no-go. Not to mention the fact that he’d never used a slingshot in his life and he was pretty sure it was a specialized skill. The last thing he needed was to miss and make the dog angrier than it already was.

He sighed, defeated. The only primitive weapons he knew of, besides the slingshot, were spears (again, no wood to make a spear with); knives, i.e. sharp stones attached to said spears (same problem as above); and big clubs made of, well, wood. For as far as he could see, this part of Hades was basically a big, rocky pit dotted with pools of superheated water and sulfuric gas. No plants, no trees, no nothing.

Except... rocks.

There were actually a _lot_ of rocks. All over the place.

Dean figured he had a pretty good throwing arm. He’d creamed Sam’s ass for three years running in their Traditional Epic Snowball Fight, until Cas came along and ruined it by being angelically accurate and impossible to sneak up on.

Still, that was an awfully long time ago. He was probably in need of a little practice.

He retraced his steps, putting about a quarter of a mile between him and Snoop Doggy Dog, gathering up rocks as he went. It felt comforting to have ammo, even if it was the size of tennis balls. They had to be more or less spherical, big enough to do some damage and light enough that he could throw them accurately.

He dumped the rocks into a pile near his feet and picked an outcropping about fifty feet away. His first throws weren’t very good, but he adjusted his stance and his grip, and worked on his form. 

He collected the rocks and tried again. Step, raise the elbow, release and follow through, over and over. Gradually, his throws became more accurate and confident.

He pictured Uriel’s smug face smirking at him, and aimed for his nose.

 _Bam_. 

Back on the hill, his ammo beside him, Dean rested and waited. The dog clearly sensed that someone was nearby, but eventually it quieted and laid down. Two of the heads drooped, eyes closing, while the third head seemed to be keeping vigil.

Dean figured he wasn’t going to get a better opportunity than this. As soundlessly as he could, he got to his feet, fingers wrapped lightly around a smooth, round stone. The watchful head emitted a low growl.

Dean threw the rock. To his astonishment, it hit one of the sleeping heads squarely on the forehead with a resounding _crack_. It let out a high-pitched bleating wail, clearly in pain.

Instantly, the beast was on its feet, snarling and baring its teeth. Dean let loose another rock. It was slightly off-target, but it clipped one of the heads on the ear. Encouraged, Dean threw two more. One rock missed entirely but the other hit the first head almost exactly where he’d injured it already. It dropped, hanging uselessly between the two other heads.

Dean grinned to himself. One down, two to go.

The beast was clearly hurt, which only seemed to make it furious and desperate. It lunged forward, held in place by the chain, howling in two voices.

Dean grabbed as many rocks as he could and moved closer, aiming for the two remaining heads. He managed a direct hit, then missed the next as the dog’s body spasmed, pulling at the chain in a panicked frenzy. But a final throw smashed into the last one’s jaw and the beast collapsed.

Chest heaving, Dean waited, watching for movement. But the dog was still, the three heads splayed in different directions. It wasn’t dead - Dean could see an occasional twitch, and hear its labored breathing. But it definitely seemed down for the count, and that was good enough for him.

He moved forward, skirting cautiously around it, but it didn’t move. Relieved, and not a little proud of himself--Take _that_ , Heracles--he realized there was another problem. He’d been so focused on the three-headed dog he’d forgotten there was a wall of fire between him and Tartarus.

Dean stood about six feet from the gate. The waist-high line of flame stretched between the two iron posts. The heat was enough to sear his face, and he backed up to where the temperature was bearable.

Fire. If there was one thing that sent a shudder of terror through him--well, besides, plane rides and snakes--it was fire. 

When he was a teenager, he’d learned to impress girls by taking out his lighter and running his finger back and forth through the flame in a show of bravado. It didn’t hurt, but Dean was well aware it was only a game, meant to hide a real fear.

He glanced back at the dog. It was stirring slightly. One of the heads had its eyes open, but it was lying still, looking dazed. For the moment.

He knew he had to move; the dog wouldn’t be down for long. How hard could it be to just run through the fire? It looked like it was only about four or five feet across. He could make it in two steps. Maybe if he ran fast enough, the fire wouldn’t have time to burn him. He’d be across before he even had a chance to get hurt. He hoped.

He gathered himself, took a few deep breaths, and ran across.

Or rather, he didn’t. His feet were frozen in the “get set” position. 

The problem was, his legs were not on board with the plan. They were locked in self-imposed paralysis, and try as he might, Dean couldn’t make himself move toward the flames. Not while part of him was screaming _Run away_.

He was sweating, either from the heat or from fear, he couldn’t tell which. He took the helmet off and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then put it back on. Fuck, why did it have to be _fire_? Fire meant burns. Pain. Terror and trauma. Nobody could spend a second in those flames and come out unscathed.

But it was the only way forward.

The thing to do, he decided, was not to think about it. Just shut his eyes, sprint, and deal with the consequences later. If he got a running start, his momentum would carry him through.

 _Now, Dean!_ his Dad’s voice urged, and he tried to use that as a trigger. But even his father’s direct order wasn’t enough to make him cooperate.

On the count of three, he told his legs. No excuses this time. 

One.

Two. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the dog move. Too late, Dean realized he’d backed up unwittingly into its reach, and taking the helmet off had exposed him. Only one head seemed to be alert, but it looked furious and determined. 

It lunged at him, knocking him to the ground. Dean grunted in surprise and scrambled up, but the dog latched onto his left arm, sinking sharp teeth into Dean’s forearm. 

Dean yelped at the sudden pain and intense pressure. He tried to yank his arm back, desperate to get away, but the jaws were relentless and powerful. The dog’s mouth was frothing and its teeth were dark with his blood.

He tried to scramble back onto his feet, but the dog shook its head, its teeth still buried in Dean’s arm, and he couldn’t regain his balance. He punched ineffectually at the dog’s head, but it just bit down harder and Dean heard a crack-- _Shit!_ \--followed by a searing pain.

Frantic, he balanced on his left knee and kicked at the head with his right. The dog pulled back but didn’t let go of his mangled arm. Dean breathed harshly through clenched teeth, close to panic. His arm was going numb and he felt light-headed. The only thing he could think was _get away get away_ but nothing he tried was having any effect.

He curled in on himself, trying instinctively to make himself smaller. And then his hand knocked into something smooth and round--one of the stones he’d pelted at the beast earlier. 

His mind snapped back into focus and he grabbed the stone. With an effort, he managed to get his feet under himself.

Then he smashed the rock down with all his strength onto the dog’s skull.

And again. And again.

When the dog finally collapsed, Dean wrenched his arm out of its slack jaws and folded it close to his body, using his right hand to cradle it carefully. It felt misshapen and ached deeply, but didn’t hurt, really, which he knew from experience was not a good sign. He was shaking and his heart was hammering.

He turned back to the gate and the line of fire. This was it, no more playing around. With a final burst of adrenaline, he took two running steps and leapt through the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you've met [Cerberus](https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Creatures/Cerberus/cerberus.html), the "Hound of Hades" who guards the Gates of the Underworld.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean’s momentum carried him through the fire and several steps beyond, until he skidded to a stop. Behind him, the flames died down and then went out.

On this side of the Gates of Tartarus, the landscape was completely different. Instead of a dark, rocky pit, he was now in a densely wooded area. The light was still dim and there was a chill in the air. He stood motionless, trying to calm his breathing and get his bearings, and listened intently. 

There were some odd whooping sounds coming from somewhere deeper in the woods, maybe from some kind of crazed person or animal, but they sounded far away. Obviously, he wasn’t alone here.

Time to take stock, he thought. He could feel something bad had happened to his arm, and then there was the running-through-fire thing… He needed to see the damage. 

He took off the Helm of Invisibility, letting it drop to the ground, then looked himself over.

His first feeling was short-lived relief: he wasn’t burned. His sleeves were a little singed and his jeans were hot to the touch, but he didn’t think he was damaged beyond some reddened skin. The flames never reached much above his waist, and his boots seemed to have protected his feet, although the soles were sticky with half-melted rubber.

Then there was his arm.

It was gouged in multiple places and his forearm looked deformed and slightly bent. Looking at it seemed to trigger some shocked place in his brain which had been keeping the pain at bay---oh fuck oh _fuck_ \--and he dug his teeth into his bottom lip, not wanting to let a sound escape.

Gingerly, he moved his fingers, touching them one at a time to his thumb. There didn’t seem to be any loss of sensation, which hopefully meant no nerve damage, but the break was bad enough. He ran the fingers of his right hand gently over the swelling, pressing down just slightly on the bump, sucking in his breath at the pain. He couldn’t tell if just one or both of the bones were broken, but the ends were definitely out of alignment. The skin was ragged and punctured where the dog had latched on.

He sank down onto the ground, feeling suddenly that his legs were weak and wouldn’t hold him. He was dizzy. He leaned back against a nearby tree trunk, trying not to panic. 

This was _so_ not good.

He had to fix up the arm, but doing it one-handed with no equipment was going to be hard and unpleasant, to say the least. He’d have to keep the helmet off while he worked, which meant he’d be doubly vulnerable and unprotected. He wasn’t looking forward to the first aid or the pain, but that wasn’t the main problem. 

The problem was that he was fucked. Weak and impaired. How the hell was he supposed to rescue Cas if he was this injured?

Adding to his growing alarm, another whooping sound rang through the air, still far away--he hoped--but from a different direction this time. Whatever it was, it was on the move and fast. And this time he was sure: it was human.

He needed to stabilize his arm. After a quick search, he was able to find two short, relatively flat branches for a splint. Maneuvering his right arm out of his Henley and then pulling it over his head was easy enough but then he had to pull the sleeve off over his broken arm. Every tug of the fabric over the fracture sent pain lancing through him and despite his resolve to stay quiet, he let out a guttural moan. 

The next part wasn’t any picnic, either. After a few tries, he managed to place the sticks above and below his forearm and wrap the shirt around it, using his good hand and his teeth to knot the sleeves together as tightly as he could. By the end, he was sweating, breathing hard and hurting, but he needed to get moving and this was the best he could do.

He got his legs under him, then took a few careful steps. Letting his arm swing freely felt awfully vulnerable, but keeping his arm tucked against his chest threw off his balance. He paused, wondering if he should convert his t-shirt into a sling. He didn’t relish the thought of facing Tartarus bare-chested, but--

He froze at the sound of… was that someone _laughing_? 

He whirled around. There was a metal cage--Where the hell had that come from?--about three feet high, not twenty feet away from him, half-hidden in the brush. The bearded man inside was looking up at him, chuckling, as if he’d just seen something really amusing.

“You,” he crowed, and Dean felt his gut clench, even before he recognized the voice. “Now ain’t that fittin’. Shoulda known you’d be along, sooner or later.” 

The cage, the country accent and the bad teeth dredged up a memory of pain and fear, a hot poker he’d shoved into a corner of his mind. 

_Fuck my life._

“Bender,” he muttered. “Small world.” 

Pa Bender and his psycho hillbilly family were some of the most cold-hearted _human_ sons of bitches Dean had run into over the years. Murderers without remorse. Small wonder they’d ended up here.

He moved closer. Bender was crouched in the same kind of cage he’d once seen Sam trapped in, like an animal. There was a heavy lock on the door.

“Well, well, well,” Dean said, letting his lips curl into a slow smile. “Don’t you look good in that cage.”

“Your brother looked mighty fine in it,” Bender sneered. “Where’s he at?”

“He’s got better things to do, you inbred asshole.”

Bender eyed him coldly. “I remember you, so cocky... Actin’ like you was so much better’n us. Look at you now, all banged up and shiverin’ in the cold.” He reached up and rattled the bars of the cage, laughing when Dean instinctively took a step back. “Wait’ll my boys get ahold o’ you. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Your boys,” Dean repeated, frowning. He heard more shouts and raucous laughter, then groaned inwardly as he realized what was happening. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding…” 

“My boys, Jared and Lee. They’re on a hunt.” He gave Dean a sly grin. “Now we got us some new prey. Better watch yo’self.”

“Us? Looks to me like you’re locked in a cage."

“They almost here and I’ll be gettin’ outa this cage.” 

“Oh... I get it. You guys are hunting each other now, aren’t you?” It was so outrageously perfect Dean actually let out a low chuckle, even as his mind was racing to find a way out of this latest fuck-up. “Fucking cosmic retribution. You take turns, or what?”

“Usually.” Bender fixed his eyes on Dean. “But I reckon this time gon’ be different.”

The lock on the cage suddenly clicked open. Bender pushed the door open and started crawling out, and Dean quickly backed up a few feet. 

He heard rustling noises coming from behind him. The two Bender sons--oh, now he remembered them--both holding heavy branches like baseball bats, were closing in on him from two directions. He frantically scanned the ground nearby for anything he could use to defend himself with--a good-sized branch, a rock--but came up empty.

“Lookee here, boys,” Bender called out. “It’s the funny boy that sicced the bitch cop on me. He just fell into our hunt.”

“I remember him, Pa,” one of the boys--Jared?-- said, giving Dean a menacing grin. “You burned him and he screamed.”

“That’s the one.” He paused, then added ominously, “You know what to do.”

Dean just had time to think _oh shit_ when the other brother lunged at him, brandishing his branch. Dean pivoted away and began to sprint.

They closed in on him, yelling and whooping. Dean sped up, but he hadn’t gotten far when one of the Benders came at him from the side, smashing a heavy branch into Dean’s right knee. It collapsed, sending him crashing into the brush.

His elbow hit the ground and his arm exploded with pain. Dean screamed and curled in on himself. Fuck fuck _fuck_ … For a moment he couldn’t even straighten up as he tried to draw breath into his lungs and waited for the pain to die down to something manageable.

By the time he was able to lift his gaze back up, the three Benders were standing over him with matching maniacal grins.

“Wait, wait!” he bit out, holding his good arm up protectively as they circled him and moved closer. “Listen, I can help you! I’ve got something you want! It’s a special helmet--”

“Don’ want no helmet,” Pa Bender told him, trading a look with his sons. “Just wanna smash in yer pretty face.”

“Yeah, I got the memo,” Dean muttered. He tried again. “Listen to me, it’s a special helmet that makes you invisible! It’s like magic. I swear. You’ll be able to sneak up on each other! Wouldn’t that be great?” 

The Helm was over by the cage, he was fairly sure. He must have left it on the ground when he was fixing up his arm. “Let me go, and I’ll show you where it is! Just let me--”

“Go ahead, Lee,” Bender prompted. “He’s a liar.”

Lee Bender raised his branch in preparation for a killing blow, and Dean offered up a silent apology to Cas for screwing up.

“Now, now, none of that,” someone said in a clipped British accent.

Crowley was suddenly standing not three feet away from him, and Dean gaped up at him in shock and relief.

“Crowley?” Good fucking timing. 

“Squirrel,” Crowley acknowledged, “so nice of you to drop by.” He inclined his head toward the Benders, who seemed to be frozen in place. “Friends of yours?”

Pa Bender looked furious. “Ya can’t interfere in the hunt!” 

“Yeah, Pa!” “You tell ‘im!” his boys echoed.

“Oh, spare me,” Crowley said, with a long-suffering sigh. “There are _rules_ here! Did I not make that clear already? You three charming country cannibals get to hunt each other for all eternity, remember? No exceptions! No bloody improvisation!”

He waved his hand impatiently. The Benders were suddenly confined in three matching cages, minus the branches.

“Hey!” the elder Bender protested. “We ain’t done with our hunt! I’m hungry!”

“Shut up!” Crowley thundered, and Bender shrank back. “Now try to combine your three pathetic IQs and listen again. You hunt, maim, kill, and eat _each other_. You don’t get to snack on any passing idiot that happens by!”

“Hey--” Dean protested, but Crowley silenced him with a glare.

“Am I clear? Good. Consider yourselves sent to bed without supper.”

Looking satisfied, Crowley straightened his tie and turned back to Dean. “Now then! What an unexpected surprise. Dean Winchester, looking decidedly the worse for wear. You look awful, darling.”

Dean simply nodded in agreement, suddenly exhausted. Now that the immediate danger was past, his arm had again become a throbbing source of misery. He used his other hand to support it lightly.

Gritting his teeth, he bit out, “Crowley, not that I’m not grateful, but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Aren’t _you_ ?” Crowley asked pointedly. “And yet, you’re here.”  
  


The woods disappeared. They were inside what looked like a comfortable living room, with luxurious carpeting and heavy maroon drapes on the windows. 

“My home,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Welcome. Have a seat before you swoon.” He settled himself in one of the comfortable armchairs and gestured to the one opposite.

Dean barely had the energy for a glare, and truth be told, he was grateful for the chance to sit in an upholstered chair. His legs were shaky with adrenaline and his arm ached sharply no matter what position it was in.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus. WIth an effort, he said, “You can’t be here. You stabbed yourself with an angel blade.”

“Please,” he said, as if Dean were a little slow on the uptake. “I thought we’d established long ago that I’m a _demon_ . Angel blades don’t send me off into oblivion.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Not forever, anyway. The question is, why are you on _my_ turf, mucking up the natural order of things?”

“Your turf,” Dean repeated. “Wait, you mean Tartarus? You’re in charge here?” 

“Hades,” Crowley corrected. “All of it. It was Mother’s idea. She needed someone with managerial experience she could trust--”

“--and she picked _you_?”

“--and I was done dealing with demons. Win-win, more or less.”

Dean nodded tiredly. He didn’t particularly care if Crowley or some ancient Greek demigod ran this place. He needed a new plan, but he was in pain and exhausted, and he couldn’t seem to get his thoughts together. This whole rescue mission had gone sideways. His arm was fucking useless and he didn’t have any ideas that involved him moving at half-speed and unable to fight. 

Crowley was oblivious, talking over Dean’s disinterest. “... was a neglected, backward stinkhole of a place when I took over. Three thousand years of more-of-the-same. All these Greek has-beens were strutting around, using the same old punishments and demanding the same pay. I’ve been bringing modern technology and a certain creative flair! But no one wants to upset the status quo. Charon insisted on keeping his rowboat, and I had to let those three judgy nuisances keep their jobs. But I was the one who brought bureaucracy, mass media and shopping malls to Asphodel--”

“That was you? Nice touch,” Dean conceded.

“--and I’ve been slowly remodeling Tartarus. Punishments have been modernized.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Can’t I just have a chat with an old friend, without there being a point to it?”

“Screw you, Crowley. And put me the fuck back where I was.”

Crowley fixed him with a cold stare. “And just where do you think you were, exactly? And where were you going?”

Good question. Dean had no idea where Cas might be, and whether he was even close, but he was fairly sure shooting the shit with Crowley wasn’t going to help. “Look, I don’t have time for whatever bullshit you’re trying to--” 

A sudden white-hot burst of agony flared in his forearm. He let out a startled shout and doubled over in pain. “Fuck! What did you do?”

“Just... pulled and straightened,” Crowley said innocently. 

The agony cooled into a dull ache, and Dean was able to breathe easier. “You fixed my arm?” 

Crowley shrugged indifferently. “Mostly.” 

Dean gave him a wary look. He pulled at the Henley knotted around his arm until the fabric came away, then examined his forearm with a critical eye. It was definitely straighter, although it was still swollen and the bites looked red and angry. He flexed his elbow and made a fist, then poked at the torn flesh of the bites, wincing. Maybe the arm wasn’t a hundred per cent, but it was definitely usable. 

Still, out of habit, he glared at Crowley. “You couldn’t finish the job?”

Crowley shrugged, unperturbed. “I know you were raised in a barn, Dean, but I thought you’d have picked up some manners by now. Here, let me get you started. ‘Thank you for fixing my broken arm and healing the incipient infection from the doggie bites.’” 

He paused, and Dean gave him a grudging nod.

“ ‘ _And_ thank you, Crowley, for rescuing me from the hillbilly hunters who were going to roast me and pass the barbecue sauce.’ ” 

Dean huffed. “I was working on a strategy.”

“Yes, I heard. The Helm of Hades in exchange for your life. Not a bad spur-of-the-moment plan, but I think, all things considered, they’d have preferred to whack you with their branches and cook you over an open fire.”

“Probably,” Dean had to admit. “Fine, you win. Thank you.”

“That’s better. Do I have your full attention now?”

Dean rubbed a tired hand over his face. “I hope you’re getting to the point.”

“I’ve been following your exploits since you crossed the River Styx. You have a lovely singing voice, by the way. Never knew.”

“Really? I’m sure I mentioned it in my Christmas newsletter…”

“And the way you took out Cerberus? Douze points! Full marks from the Estonian judge.”

Dean frowned. “I took out who?"

“The three-headed dog, you ignoramus!” Crowley looked pained. “Why do I always get stuck dealing with the G.E.D. instead of the Ivy League?”

Because Sam would never have been dumb enough to toss away his afterlife on a hunch, Dean thought. “Just cut to the chase, Crowley. What do you want?”

“Bottom line: you need me if you want to help your angel in distress.”

Dean leaned forward. “How do you know about that? Where’s Cas?” 

Crowley leaned back in the chair and announced, “I’m going to take you to him.”

Dean thought---hoped--for a minute that Crowley was going to make good on his promise, before the higher regions of his brain kicked in. This was too good to be true. There was always a price tag. 

“Really,” Dean said slowly. “You’re gonna take me to Cas.”

“Just trying to speed up the process,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Tartarus is a big place. You could bang around here for weeks before you run into him. Sisyphus is still around here somewhere, you know, pushing that boulder up a hill. We’ve got entire neighborhoods dedicated to serial killers… rapists… arsonists…”

“Why would _you_ want to help _me_?”

“Didn’t say I’d help you, mate. Just said I’d take you to him.”

“Why?” Dean pressed.

Crowley didn’t reply at first. Then, looking slightly sheepish, he said, “Maybe it’s because I have a soft spot for unrequited love and lost causes. Or maybe I’d just enjoy seeing your reunion with your boyfriend and your futile attempt to rescue him.” 

“First off, he’s not my boyfriend--”

Crowley gave him a pointed look. “By all means, keep up that story. Can’t wait to see the look on Castiel’s face when you tell him that… considering where he is. _Huge_ entertainment value.”

“Go to hell, Crowley, and what do you mean, futile?” 

“Because you can’t rescue him.” He said it with finality, and Dean felt his heart nosedive. “You don’t have the power. You can’t get him out. And before you ask, _I_ don’t have the authority. He’s a fallen angel and that’s out of my direct jurisdiction.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dean got to his feet. “Then what exactly is the point of this conversation?”

“Look, I need something, all right?” Crowley stood, facing Dean. “And I think you can help me with it. You’ll owe me one, champ. So do we have a deal?”

“You bring me to Cas, and I owe you? That’s the deal?”

“That’s the deal. You know the saying: ‘One day, and that day may never come, I may call on you--”

“Don’t quote The Godfather at me!” he grumbled, and then considered for a moment. “And no way. If I can’t get Cas out, deal’s off.” 

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair enough. Either way, I’ll still get to watch the show. Are we agreed, then?”

Dean hesitated. “Fine, deal,” he said finally. “But I’m not kissing you.”   
  
  
  


Another flick of Crowley’s hand, and they were in some kind of amphitheater with a large stage and an enormous screen behind it. 

Cas was on some kind of raised dias, his back to them, facing the screen. His head was bowed and his shoulders were hunched. Dean could see his face, because it was projected onto a corner of the screen. He looked miserable. Hopeless.

The reason soon became obvious. 

Dean flinched at the sound of Cas’ voice, booming over speakers. “... _the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know_.”

On the screen, bigger than life, the close-up of Dean’s stricken expression could not have been more eloquent. 

“ _You know, ever since we met_ ,” Cas continued, “ _ever since I pulled you out of Hell, knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam. I cared about Jack. I cared about the whole world because of you. You changed me, Dean_.”

On the big screen, Dean saw himself, looking appalled. Speechless. 

He didn’t know what Cas could read in his silence, but it didn’t stop him from his declaration. “ _I love you_.” 

“ _Don’t do this, Cas,_ ” Dean heard his own voice amplified. 

Worst response ever to a declaration of love, he thought in disgust. Cas must have been thinking the same thing, because Dean could see him grimace and lower his head.

The scene changed, and Dean watched himself and Cas, much younger. " _I killed two angels this week_ ,” Cas was snarling. “ _My brothers... I rebelled and I did it - all of it - for you. And you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world. And I lost everything, for nothing_.”

A more recent scene. Dean heard himself speaking: “W _e don't know what happened! But I swear, if he did something to her, if she is_ \-- “ 

An accusing finger pointed at Cas, and Dean’s eyes were cold. “ _Then you’re dead to me_.”

Dean watched himself in the Bunker, bloody and dead-eyed with the Mark of Cain, beating on Cas until he was coughing up blood and pleading for his life. 

“ _You and Sam stay the hell away from me_ ,” he spat out. “ _Next time I won't miss_.”  
  


Dean watched in horrified silence for long minutes. It went on and on: resentments, betrayals, misunderstandings and angry outbursts just this side of hate. 

Finally, he wrenched his eyes away from the screen. “What the hell is going on, Crowley?” 

Crowley sighed. “Please. You really don’t get it? No? I’ll try to dumb it down for you. Your boyfriend’s a rebel with a cause. Been in love with you for years. That’s a big no-no, apparently.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah, Bobby said something about that. Angels aren’t supposed to consort with humans...”

“So in Tartarus, we let the punishment fit the crime...” Crowley gave him a pleased smile. “The multimedia show was my idea.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean murmured, but his heart wasn’t in it. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes off the screen. His whole pathetic relationship history with Cas was projected on a replay loop. Every fight, every cruel thing he’d ever said to Cas, every missed opportunity to tell Cas how he really felt - and Cas had to watch them, over and over, on a huge HD screen.

He’d had plenty of time on his journey to imagine how Cas was being punished for the sin of having feelings for a human. For _him_. He had visions of Cas strung up by his wings. Beat on and hurting. Forced to be scolded for all eternity by that arrogant dick, Uriel. 

But this, he’d never considered. This was personal.

 _He_ was Cas’ torture.


End file.
